


Stellar-light based life

by JoCarthage



Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Reality-typical racism and queerphobia, Roswell New Mexico Big Bang 2020, space fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:40:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 30,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28114035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoCarthage/pseuds/JoCarthage
Summary: It’s not a memory if it’s something you see every day.It’s a trigger and it’s not one Alex wants to ever let go of.Alex saw Michael disappear into a blinding blue light, soft 17-year-old body pulled back into some kind of impossible vortex -- one hand, outstretched.
Relationships: Michael Guerin/Alex Manes
Comments: 188
Kudos: 100
Collections: Roswell New Mexico Big Bang 2020





	1. Distance: 0.00003km

**Author's Note:**

> Check out this amazing [coverart](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28109691) by [@EmmaArthur](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmmaArthur/pseuds/EmmaArthur). It is so gorgeous and so perfect and I was so thrilled to get to work with such an amazing and patient artist.
> 
> Thank you to [@DaughterOfElros](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaughterofElros) for the kind cheerleading and your patience as it turned out that I am, once again, too squirrely about my writing to work with a beta. I loved reading your piece and can't wait to see it up here.
> 
>  **Author’s Note** : the title is from the wikipedia page for Kapteyn b, one of the several dozen potentially habitable planets astronomers have identified: "One other planet has been detected within the same planetary system. It is designated ‘Kapteyn c’ and orbits further out from the star, beyond the outer edge of the habitable zone. It is considered to be too cold for stellar-light based life.” ([source](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kapteyn_b))
> 
> I just loved that. “Stellar-light based life.”

It’s not a memory if it’s something you see every day. 

It’s a trigger and it’s not one Alex wants to ever let go of.

Alex saw Michael disappear into a blinding blue light, soft 17-year-old body pulled back into some kind of impossible vortex -- one hand, outstretched.

BACK UP.

A hot gasp against a newly-shaved neck, the feeling of a tight body around him, curls in his mouth, knees on other sides of his hips --

BACK UP.

“I trust you, I trust you, oh, God, Alex, I trust you -- “

BACK UP.

  
Michael shied away in the shed, chest bare but face shuttered. 

“We don’t have to, if you don’t want to -- “ Alex started, already looking for his UFO Emporium shirt on the dusty floor.

Michael’s hands on his elbows, holding him still, keeping him close, not letting him fade away into careful, casual bro-ness.

“It’s -- it’s not that. I don’t want to lie to you and,” he rifled those long fingered hands Alex had been thinking about for months through his petable halo of hair. “I feel like all I do is lie sometimes, you know? But I don’t want to lie to you.”

“Ok -- what lie are you telling right now?”

That broken-hearted laugh: “That I’m human?”

Alex frowned -- “I mean, don’t we all feel --”

“No!” Michael’s voice was too, too loud for a shed, too close to the house. It was the afternoon and Alex’s Dad might come home any second. Both boys stopped what they were doing to look carefully out the thin-paned window: no movement from the house.

“No, I,” and Michael swallowed, voice catching like it hurt. “I’m not human. Like, really, really, not human --”

Alex screwed-up his mouth, trying to think of if he knew any counselors who could see Michael, any way he could help -- and then the other boy held out his hand, twiddling his fingers. The condom -- which Alex had stuffed in his back pocket on his mad dash into his room before rejoining Michael and his shy smile in the pine-scented shed -- tugged itself out of his tight black jeans with a serrated sound. Michael floated it up, twisting and turning the blue-tinged foil in the air like a prima donna en pointe; it flashed in the late afternoon light like a beacon; like a sign.

“I’m from,” and Michael pointed a slow finger up into the air, up at the sky, the packet floating up to spin on his fingertip.

“Ah,” Alex said, thinking about it for about half a breath. Then he grinned, eyes crinkling: “ _Super_ _cool_.”

Michael’s face cracked, a look of such relief, such painful reality, Alex regretted not saying something more meaningful. He reached for him again, hand going slow, slow as he could make himself move, letting Michael have every chance in the world -- _in the universe, I guess_ \-- to step away. 

He didn’t. 

Alex slotted his fingers along his too, too thin ribs, each finger filling in where a good meal should have gone.

His voice was quiet, just between them: “That’s the most special thing anyone has ever told me. Thank you for trusting me with that.”

Michael swallowed and nodded, eyes massive.

Alex kept his feet where they’d been planted, thumb sweeping little arcs along Michael’s soft skin. His voice was lower when he asked: “What are you lying about now?”

“Sometimes, I’m not homeless. Sometimes, I can sleep on Mr Sander’s couch, with his dog Shelby. He always cooks me breakfast.”

Alex felt his face crack a little: “That’s still sleeping rough by my account, but ok, now I know.” He anchored his other hand on Michael’s hip, fingers just curling into the church dryer thinned denim over soft muscle. “What else?”

“There -- there are two others. Like me. Maybe more -- maybe millions. I just don’t know them,” and Michael's voice broke. “They never came for me.”

“Fuck them,” Alex whispered. “Fuck them for leaving you. You deserve to be kept. By someone who loves you. Forever.”

Michael’s big wet eyes were like mirrors, like portals, like promises of something sweet and lasting.

Alex slid his hand a little back, until he could press his fingertips into the soft dips on either side of Michael’s spine. “What else?”

“I’ve never done this with anyone I like as much as I like you.”

“Me either,” Alex whispered, feeling his voice catch. “No one I’ve ever met is like you. No matter where you come from.”

Michael’s smile was a little less watery this time.

Alex inched a little closer to him, Michael’s thumbs finding the insides of his elbows. “What else?”

He spoke quick, like the words could zip through Alex’s defenses if only he shot them fast enough: “I think we should run away together; I think your Dad is a shitshow of a human being and there’s no reason we can’t both crash on Mr Sander’s couch with Shelby.” Michael gave him a shrewd look. “Better than you plotting to throw your life away in the military -- even for four years, Alex. I _saw_ you talking to the campus recruiter. We’re at war. There’s nothing you need to know so bad only the Air Force can teach you. I don’t want you to go.”

Alex -- he felt a shatter-quake of feelings move across his face -- disbelief that Michael knew, that Michael _cared_ , hurt that he could see so deep into him without his consent, wonder that someone else wanted him to live.

“I -- I like dogs.”

Michael cracked up, fingers drifting up to Alex’s lips, trailing across his cheekbone before cradling his cheek. “That’s good.”

Alex took a half step closer, close enough any strong breath would bring their young bodies together. “What else?”

Michael closed his eyes, tipping his forehead slow and easy against Alex’s.

“I got a full ride to UNM. I’m gonna be an agricultural engineer.” Michael’s eyes flew open, pinning Alex down, holding him up: “I’m in international house and I’ve got a single. You can come live with me in the Fall. We’ll get out, together.”

“Yeah?” Alex said, breathless, entire life unwinding and recoiling in a new configuration around them. He traced his fingertips up Michael’s side, sweeping around his probably-ticklish armpits to hang on tight to the nape of his neck. “What’ll I do while you’re in class?”

Michael grinned: “Write music, mug strange jocks for their pocket money, cause havoc,” and he paused, eyes serious, staring into Alex’s: “Be free.”

“Yeah,” Alex said, and it felt like a wedding promise; it felt like a vow.

“Yeah,” Michael said, kissing the side of his mouth. Without moving away, so his lips stayed brushing Alex’s, “But that’s not for another two weeks.” 

“Yeah?”

“In the meantime,” Michael said, closing barely-there space between them, inter-tangling their feet, inter-tangling their minds, “I have something I want to do with you.”

Alex sagged into him with a pained sound: “God, Michael, please --”

GO FORWARD.


	2. Distance: 223,461,879,597,235km

**August 15, 2018  
** **Baikonur Cosmodrome, Kazakhstan**

Alex Sanders sat-up in his steel bunkbed; only 21 hours until launch and he had about a dozen dozen protocols and check-ins scheduled, a quick hit with the global press, and then he would be strapping into his portion of the capsule cluster and getting off this rock.

But first. 

He had his daily ritual. 

He closed his eyes, going over everything Michael had told him that last night in the shed, before his father had tried to kill him in front of the first boy he’d ever touched; before he watched through dimming eyes as Michael had pulled a storm from thin air, had torn a hole in the world, atomizing his Dad, and throwing Michael backwards through a bookcase and into that chaotic blue portal. Here’s what Alex knew:

  1. Michael had told him he was an alien (Alex didn’t know from where at the time, though now he had a pretty good idea).
  2. Michael had told him he could find safety in Walt Sanders’ junkyard (and Alex had gone there, streaked eye-liner and finger-bruised throat, to find a man who would stand guard with a shotgun over his knees all night while Alex sobbed and coughed and tried to understand what had happened. Sanders had told him a lot in the coming weeks, about Miss Nora, about refuge, about family).
  3. Michael had told him he could move things with his mind (Alex had come to believe in the intervening 10 years that Michael hadn’t know he could also pull space portals out of thin air; that had been new to both of them).
  4. Michael had told him he wanted to be an agricultural engineer (wherever Michael had ended-up, Alex hoped they had plants).
  5. Michael had wanted to be free with him ( _not yet, Michael; not ‘til I have you back. Then we can both be free_ ).



The thing was, Alex knew better than most that space was vast. He was an astronaut for God’s sakes. At an insane start-up where all the astronauts were nicknamed the Crazy Motherfuckers (CMFs for short) by the space-faring establishment, sure. But Alex had been 50 miles up off the Earth on the last test of the capsule vehicle; he was as much an astronaut as John Glenn or anyone. And he’d sacrificed more than most, even if MarsX thought of his missing foot as beneficial, because it decreased his overall weight.

So Alex Sanders knew space was hostile to life, impossibly huge -- and if a teenaged Michael Guerin had thrown himself at random out into the universe, the likelihood he was dead and gone 10 years ago was nearly 100%.

And Alex would believe that -- would have forced himself to accept that the way he’d forced himself to accept every other piece of evidence of an inherently cruel universe -- except for the radio transmissions.

\--

BACK UP.  
IN ORDER NOW.

**April 22nd, 2009**

MarsX HQ (ie, the basement of CalTech’s aerospace annex)

Preeta Singh pulled her headset off her ears: “Bob, you’ve got to listen to this.”

Bob Yi, the longtime faculty advisor of just about anyone who wanted to go to space without joining the US Navy or Air Force first and who managed to make their way to CalTech, swept Oreo crumbs off his t-shirt and took the offered headset. It was a little after 2am.

“Is that Morse Code?”

Preeta Singh frowned, tapping on the glass of the screen. “I converted the flashes I was tracking off of the C ring of Saturn, the one we thought were collisions of the ice that makes up like 99% of that ring? I was trying to see if I could pick-up some kind of pattern through tones.”

“Very music of the spheres, I like it,” Bob said, yanking over a post-it note and noting down the dits and dahs of the message.

.. ... .- .-.. . -..- -- .- -. . ... --- ..-. .-. --- ... .-- . .-.. .-.. .- .-.. .. ...- .

“I’ve already translated it,” Preeta Singh said, voice quiet.

Bob let the pen drop. He gave a sigh. “Gibberish? Some kind of prank? I swear to God, if that intern Ortecho broke in here to mess with your code again --”

Preeta shook her hair, mass of ruby curls flopping around her face.

“No, it made perfect sense. I just don’t know what it means.”

“IS ALEX MANES OF ROSWELL ALIVE.”

\--

A few hours later, Liz had bopped into the office, read the translation and said: “Did Alex get in? I know he applied, but I thought he was still waiting to hear back? Is he going to intern here too? Oh, man, his brother is going to be piiiiiisssseeeedddd,”

At which point Preeta had gently set down her coffee with exhaustion-shaking hands, turned to her sparkly new undergraduate intern and said: “Oh, do you know Alex Manes?” As if she hadn’t been frantically Googling him all night with no real results.

Liz had signed an NDA, then texted Alex, and won herself a level of access that most people with double astrophysics / bioengineering doctorates wouldn’t dream of getting, much less first year interns. Liz had really stepped up, balancing her classes with her internship, bringing food for the group and racing the grad student interns on their orbital charting exercises until they treated her like one of them.

Against Liz's strong objections, they didn't tell Alex about the message.

\--

**July 3rd, 2009**

It takes 71 minutes for a flash of light to get from the C ring of Saturn to Earth. It took 71 days for Dr Bob Yi of CalTech to get permission from every person with clearance to demand to have a say to send one back, flashing from SETI’s installation in Shasta County, 7 hours north. 

Liz Ortecho typed the message in:

-.-- . ... .-.-.- .-- .... --- .. ... - .... .. ... ..--..

“YES, WHO IS THIS?”

\--

**July 4th, 2009**

They got the reply back the next mid-morning, Bob and Preeta and Liz Ortecho reading it together over the screen with a massive lab full of men with Top Secret Clearance behind them: 

.... --- .-- .. ... ... .... . .-.. -... -.--

“HOW IS SHELBY”

10 hours later, when everyone else had gone home but her and Liz, Preeta rubbed her eyes; she’d been staring at the return message with Liz since they’d gotten it at 4am that night. In the past 3 months, the circle of people Preeta had to report to had expanded just about as wide as she could think of. She’d maintained control over the process, since it was _her_ project, mostly through Bob’s careful politician maneuvering and the fact that the scientific establishment didn’t really have any idea what to do about this; 90% of them still thought it was some sort of complex prank.

Liz was shaking her head: “We didn’t go to _school_ with any Shelby. I called my Dad, had him check the yearbook;” she sighed, brushing her hair back off her shoulder. “I told him I was getting homesick.” Then a stubborn look came across her face, one Preeta had learned to fear and respect: “I still think we should tell Alex.”

Preeta shook her head before downing another cold sip of her mocha: “That’s been taken off the table so far above my paygrade I don’t even own the kind of clothes I’d need to get into the meetings to argue about it.”

Liz’s face was a thundercloud: “Then I have no idea how we’re going to answer. But it seems like this is a proof of life request, some sort of code, to make sure we’re not lying about Alex. Though _why_ someone in _space_ would care about Alex, but not know he has a new last name --” she threw up her hands. They’d gone ‘round and ‘round for months on this question, on this absolutely insane coincidence that Preeta’s precocious undergraduate intern just _happened_ to know the subject of what looked like their the human species’s first contact with intelligent alien life. _And they both happened to be from_ _fucking_ _Roswell, NM_. That one fact had stalled this process by two weeks, as Bob had tried to convince highly ranked people he wasn’t joshing around. 

“Maybe the 3-letter agencies can figure out exactly what kind of code SHELBY could be.” 

Liz huffed, sharing Preeta’s distrust of all the DC and Geneva crowd who tried to tell them what to do.

Preeta began to undo her braid; the familiar twist of hair between her fingers helped her think. Usually, she would never be this casual with an undergraduate intern. But Liz was the reason they’d been able to provide an absolutely definitive “Yes” to their interstellar questioner in the first place. 

Preeta finished her braid as she thought privately that she would take one Liz Ortecho over any 10 Princeton-trained doctoral candidates, but she didn’t want to fluff up the already self-confident undergrad’s ego too much more.

“I don’t want you to lie to Alex,” Preeta said carefully, “but since you’re chatting with him about schools anyway, could you, say, ask how Shelby is?”

“I don’t _know_ who Shelby is,” Liz said stubbornly.

"I know you're just just being protective of your friend. We all are -- the kid has had enough tragedy and weirdness in the last year," Liz frowned and Preeta counted the tragedies off on her fingers: "His Dad dying; him moving in with a local businessman; he ends up the sole recipient of his father’s will, life insurance policy and military benefits after his brothers washed their hands of it and him." Preeta suspected seeing the police report from the day in the shed, the pictures of Alex’s throat, of meat slushie that was all that was left of his father had played a role in their abandonment. She took a breath: "Look, I'm glad Alex applied to undergrad; the way you talk about him, he's a smart kid dealt a rough hand." She hurried on, not wanting to hear a Liz Ortecho Special on the classism inherent in the distance between mechanical work and Mechanical Engineering: "Though spending a year working as a mechanic wasn’t a bad use of time, I think you and I both know Alex would blossom someplace like CalTech."

She kept going: “Look, you know this, but the _only_ reason Bob and I’ve been able to keep Alex from getting picked up and plopped into some controlled living situation by any one of the dozen 3-letter agencies who’ve been asking us to is that I _promised_ them -- threatened them, really -- that our reading of the transmission indicated that our interstellar questioner would not look kindly on Alex’s life being disrupted.” She finished her braid and tied it off. “Alex sounds like a good kid, but I agree with you: we want to keep him from becoming target. People get a little nuts about alien stuff --” at Liz’s expression Preeta said, “which I know you know. But we don’t want anyone remanding him ‘for his protection’ and we don’t want anyone trying to hurt him to ‘stop the aliens from invading us’ and -- Liz, you’re smart, you _know_ why we can’t tell Alex that he’s the sole fixation of the first and only alien communication we’ve ever gotten. So, can you please, please, text your friend about Shelby?”

Liz narrowed her eyes, foot jiggling on the corporate-grey carpet. Then she took a breath: “Fine, you’re right, I do get it. I just --”

Preeta nodded: “I get it. It’s a fucking weird situation.”

Liz pulled out her phone and began to text; then she paused. She stuck her tongue out between her teeth, setting the phone on her knee, letting the screen go dark.

Preeta settled back in her chair, resigned; she knew this face too. This was Liz’s bargaining face.

“Alex is still in Roswell.” Liz started.

“He is.”

“Alex is on the waitlist for CalTech and CSU Long Beach. He only applied places close to me and Rosa and LA.”

“That’s what you told me.”

Liz took a breath. “I know rich kids, legacy kids, kids whose parents didn’t explode into mulch in front of them and paid for tutors and test prep classes and stuff, they get in all the time.”

“Yeah, it sucks, but it’s true.”

Liz tilted her head: “Wouldn’t those shadow-y 3-letter agencies prefer if Alex was someplace easy to get to, easy to find? Not a 3 hour drive south or 3 hour drive north of the nearest civilian airports?”

Preeta was beginning to think it through. Liz pressed her advantage: “Like you said, he’s smart. He’d do amazingly here. He’d have me and Rosa for a support system, and he’s always asking me questions about my internship --”

Preeta's voice was hard: “He couldn’t intern here; that would get him too close.”

Liz nodded slowly. “But he could intern in other parts of MarsX, learn about the astronauts or the unmanned probes or even media relations, though I think he’d get more into the hardware side.” She tilted her head, a careful look in her eye. “He just needs to get in.”

Liz tapped her phone on her knee, waiting.

Preeta pulled up her email. “I’ll talk to Bob in the morning and he and I will write to the admissions committee,” Liz kept tapping her phone on her knee, waiting. Preeta sighed. “I’ll also get Bob to get those 3-letter agencies to do the same.”

“Deal,” Liz said quickly, holding out her hand to shake. 

Preeta took it, feeling the places where Liz’s hands were still calloused from a lifetime kicking ass at school then mopping floors at her family’s diner; Preeta privately decided she’d take Liz Ortecho over any 20 Princeton-trained grad students.

Preeta typed out the email and sent it, before turning around to Liz. Liz showed her her screen:

> **Liz** : Alejandro! Miss you! How’s Shelby?

\--

Shelby was doing great; a week later, Alex got off the waitlist and into CalTech.

\--

**July 25th, 2009**

The next message went out from from the SETI installation:

... .... . .-.. -... -.-- .-- . .-.. .-.. --..-- .-.. .. -.- . ... ... .... .- .-. .. -. --. -... . -.. .-- .. - .... .- .-.. . -..- .-.-.- .... --- .-- .- .-. . -.-- --- ..- - .-. .- -. ... -- .. - - .. -. --. ..--..

“Shelby well, likes sharing bed with Alex. How are you transmitting?”

The consensus from what was now calling itself the Saturn Communication Committee (SCC) -- made up of about 50 different agencies and interested parties around the world -- had decided to continue to use colloquial American English, since that seemed to be what their interstellar questioner (IQ) was comfortable with. There were millions of theories as to why, top-secret papers for top-secret in-community journals exploring the social, cultural, and ethical issues this brought up.

But at the end of the day, that’s where they were.

There had been weeks of debate and arguing over email and conference calls about what their second major question should be, given the first wasn’t answered. The committee, by majority vote, decided that it should be logistical in nature, since personal questions seemed to be uninteresting to the IQ.

The reply came 90 minutes later:  
  
-. ..- -.- . ...

NUKES.

\--

**July 26th, 2009**

“Nukes? Really?” Liz asked for the fourth or fifth time, spinning around in her office chair long after all of the representatives of the SCC had headed back to their downtown Glendale hotels. “The IQ is really bombing the shit out of the rings of Saturn to check on Alex? He’s just a boy from Roswell. Like, I love Alex. I’m thrilled to be driving back home to pick him up next week. But if the IQ’s really using two sizes of nuclear weapons to replicate the dits and dahs of a 19th century encoding mechanism to chit-chat about him, they are _really committed_.”

Preeta frowned, snapping off a fresh bite of her chocolate bar. “I mean, these explosions are tiny, compared with rings. They’re taking up,” and she craned her neck back to see the red marker calculations she’d made on the whiteboard behind her desk. “Oh, less than a half kilometer blast radius, on rings that are 282,000 kilometers across -- that’s a tenth the distance between the Earth and the sun. Pop quiz,” Preeta started, “What’s the other term for the distance between the Earth and the sun?”

Liz intoned, still spinning: “An Astronomical Unit or AU, which is the other way we measure things, in addition to parsecs, light years, and kilometers. For extra credit, an AU is 149,597,871 kilometers. Saturn is 987,930,000 kilometers away, which is about 6.60 AUs, though I prefer to use kilometers.”

Preeta smiled, taking another bite of her candybar. “Most people would use AUs or round those kilometers up, Ortecho.”

Liz shook her head: “Stuff that’s a rounding error in space is more distance than most people will travel in their entire lives. It’s important to keep things in a human frame, keep the human perspective.”

Preeta’s voice was quiet: “Even if we’re talking with an IQ that is so much greater than ours?”

Liz smiled, eyes hardening: “Especially then. There has to be something special about us -- about Alex -- for them to want to talk to us, to use 37 of one kind of nuke for the dashes and 77 of a smaller one for the dots, just in the past few months, with who knows how many more planned. There has to be _something_ worth knowing about us, about him.” She settled her shoulders. “So we need to preserve the human point of view, as much as we can.”

\--

**August 10th, 2009**

Alex was blasting MCR, shoulder deep in an old convertible Walt had promised Michael he could sell if he got it running. Alex didn’t have any of Michael’s powers -- and Walt reading him into _that_ had made for a hell of a breakfast conversation a week after he’d started crashing on his couch -- but when he got Michael back, he knew he’d need some kind of ride.

It was hot, noon in New Mexico hot, and Alex was down to his black singlet and black jeans, because even though he looked more like a mechanic than a goth these days, he’d learned all about shopping at Goodwill from Walt.

His wardrobe had never been blacker or cheaper in his life, and he’d found there was a special freedom in wearing exactly what he wanted, when he wanted. One of the many freedoms he hadn’t realized he’d grown up without until Walt had taken him in. 

Alex wiped sweat off his face, then leaned in further, adjusting one of the bolts he’d just put in after hauling the entire engine out with the winch, cleaning it, and lowering it back in. He knew he wouldn’t get this done before Liz arrived later today to give him a ride to California, but he wanted to leave it in good enough condition he could get back to it when he came home -- and it was some kind of strange thinking of _home_ as a place he’d ever want to come back to -- for Thanksgiving break.

He heard the rumble of a minivan on gravel and looked up, waving when he recognized Liz in the driver’s seat, Rosa with her sneakers up on the dash, “Helena” blasting out:

> _What's the worst that I can say?_
> 
> _Things are better if I stay_

“Alejandro!” Rosa cheered as she rolled down the window. “What’s kicking?”

He strode towards them, meeting them in the shade under the service awning, bracing himself just in time for Rosa to half knock him over with her hug.

“Hey chica, que pasa?” He replied, grinning. She hugged him even tighter as Liz turned off the car and hustled around to join them.

He heard Walt come out the door to the office behind them, something in his back still tensing at the sound of a man’s boots approaching him. But he’d had over a year to practice with Walt being safe, being an ok person to live with, and his body relaxed once he could see him.

“You folks planning on staying for lunch? I can throw on some more grilled cheeses,”

Liz’s voice was bright and polite: “That would be awesome, Mr Sanders, thank you,”

Alex could practically hear Walt roll his eyes at the “Mr” but he headed back inside without too much grumbling.

“So,” Rosa said, hanging off Alex’s arm, “you gonna show us around?”

Alex grinned, and started the grand tour.

“Ok, so here’s the convertible I’m fixing up,” he started and Rosa slipped behind the wheel, hands at 9 and 3, making speed racer noises as she pretended to swing the wheel. Alex rolled his eyes, knowing there was nothing he could do to stop this tour of going exactly and only at the speed the eldest Ortecho sister preferred. 

Once they were done, he walked Liz over to the 3 bedroom doublewide he and Walt were sharing, easing his key into the lock. He’d never had a key to his house, growing up. He could either come home with the Sergeant was at home to let him in, or he could wait on the porch for him; Walt had given him a key his first night. He heard Rosa catching up.

“This is the living room,” he said, gesturing to the space with its two easy chairs and its brown, lumpy couch. Part of the couch moved and Alex knelt to give Shelby her due fealty.

Shelby was some unholy mix of huskie, collie, shepherd, and pit and she was about the same color as the grease under Alex's nails. He buried his face in her long brown ruff as she made serious and engaged efforts to lick his hair into a mohawk. He’d held onto Shelby through a lot of the worst nights of the last year, as the shit he’d gone through had come crashing down around his ears. He’d learned to cry without being heard long before his Mom had left, but Shelby had taught him it was ok to want comfort anyway. Her big, stinky face in his was just about the most welcome thing he could think of, short of Michael showing up on his doorstep.

“This is Shelby,” he said, turning on his knees, looking up at Liz: “Does she look like her pictures?”

Liz was giving him an odd smile. “Even better.” Liz knelt, offering the back of her hand, which Shelby dutifully sniffed before flinging her entire 80 lbs into Liz’s lap and knocking her back on her butt. Rosa caught her shoulders against her knees before kneeling with a laugh to help pat the extremely excited elder lady dog.

Alex didn’t try anything like “Shelby, off,” or “Shelby, sit.” Walt had been Shelby’s third owner and none of them had taught her any kind of manners. That you could be undisciplined and loved had been something Shelby and Walt had taught Alex too.

Instead of orders, Alex gently put his hand on Shelby’s chest and pressed her back, walking her off of Liz’s legs before picking her up with an _oof_ and carrying her back over to her favorite spot on the couch.

“I’ll say goodbye later, beautiful girl,” Alex said, heart wincing at the thought.

He pushed it aside. _Time for that soon._

“Here’s the kitchen,” he said, walking them down the hallway and nodding to Walt who waved a hand at them as he skillfully made 3 grilled cheeses at a time on the panini maker Max and Isobel Evans had brought them last Christmas. Alex had kind of, sort of, half-guessed Michael had a more than friendly relationship with the Evanses, but after what had happened in the shed, he and Walt had gone back into the newspapers, figured out who they were, and had a Come To Jesus talk with the both of them until they admitted they were Michael’s family and were desperate to know where he’d gone. That Alex could only give them snatches of details only seemed to make them want to be around him more, like those last moments with Michael could rub off on them somehow. He knew they’d be by for his goodbye dinner tonight, but that wouldn’t be for hours yet.

“This is my room,” he said, showing them the room. It was just a twin bed, a place for his guitar, a goodwill dresser. The walls were covered with maps of the universe, the cheap kind NASA sent to schools for nearly next to nothing.

Every optimistically habitable planet NASA had ever spied was circled in red. One system had a strange symbol drawn over it, like 3 circles connected by a triangle around a planet labeled Gliese 667Cc.

Liz turned to Alex. “I need to talk to you about something.”

Rosa’s face grew serious: “That’s my cue -- 10 minutes ok, ‘manita?”

Liz’s face was serious: “I think so. To start.”

Rosa closed the door with a click and Alex took a step back, leaning against the flimsy wall, heart racing against his ribs.

“What’s up, Liz?”

She wandered over to the wall, finger tracing over Saturn’s rings.

“You know how I got that internship at MarsX?”

“Yeah,” Alex felt himself settle a little; maybe she was only going to pitch him on joining her lab. “It’s basically _all_ you talk about. But it’s amazing you’re getting to work so much overtime there,”

And Liz grinned: “Yeah, and they wiped my tuition. It’s pretty great, no debt and great experience.” Her grin faded a little. She frowned a little, finger tracing one of Saturn’s inner rings. Her voice was soft. “Growing up around here, it’s hard to believe in aliens.” She gave him a half smile, before returning to the poster. “The people who do are all just so _wacky_ , like religious nuts, like fundamentalists.” She shook her head. “Papi loves them, their funny hats and silly costumes; I never got the appeal.” She glanced back at him. “What about you, Alex -- do you believe there’s life on other worlds?”

And Alex froze, jaw tightening. He tried to keep his face steady, but Liz had known him since he was in diapers; no way, no how she missed the reaction. He tried anyway: “I -- I didn’t used to.” He rubbed his eyes. “I wasn’t allowed to, in -- in the place I was. But something changed my mind.” Her eyes were widening, and he rushed to say: “Something I can’t talk about.”

She whispered: “There’s something I can’t talk about either, something that has to do with you and,” and she very slowly tapped her finger on the rings of Saturn. She took a slow breath. “Can -- can we talk about this more, once we’re on campus?”

Alex was frowning harder, and he knew his voice didn’t sound friendly: “I can’t say much more than I already have.” His voice cracked. “People might get hurt.”

“I signed a lot of documents saying I couldn't either,” Liz said, eyes careful and voice soft. “A lot of very important documents.” She tapped her finger on Saturn again and Alex shook his head, not understanding.

Walt’s voice echoed up the barely-carpeted hallway: “Soup’s up!”

Alex blinked: “We can see about talking.” He forced himself to smile. “Come on, the grilled cheese isn’t nearly as good cold.”

Liz gave him a cautious smile.

\--

**August 11th, 2009**

Somewhere in the Mojave desert, just over the border into California, Liz pulled to the side of the road, telling Rosa to keep the AC going as she and Alex trudged into the Mesquite-shaded heat, away from Alex’s single ragged suitcase and Rosa’s worried expression.

Once they were far enough from the highway that no one could hear them through any bugs in the car, Liz said: “I’ll tell you what I know, which will lose me my career if anyone ever finds out about it, Alejandro.” She took a breath. “I would be a waitress for life.”

“Liz --” Alex started, frowning.

She kept going: “I won’t ask you to tell me what you know. But I pulled strings to get you into CalTech, jump you ahead of some worth-nothing legacy kid.”

He frowned: “I -- I didn’t know undergraduate interns had that kind of pull.”

She flashed him a sarcastic smile, then sobered: “It’s -- it’s weird. It’s a weird situation.”

She began to strip the leaves off of the mesquite bush they were using for shade.

“Before I start -- you said you had something happen, something that made you believe in aliens, is that right?”

He nodded.

“Ok, so, you won’t think I’m totally bonkers then.” She took a deep breath, eyes not leaving the leaves she was crushing between her fingers. “So, April 22nd, my boss saw flashes coming from the C ring of Saturn. She translated them from Morse Code.” She took a hard breath. “It was a question. About you.”

And Alex felt it liked a boot to his chest, knees getting weak, managing to swallow _Michael?_ his breath kicking up. He braced his hand on his chest, counting his breaths like Walt had taught him as Liz watched him. He gasped out: “What was the question?”

“If you were alive.”

He hit his knees, the rough gravel digging in through the holes in his jeans, cutting just enough to bring him away from the thoughts of soft curls and softer lips, a quiet voice: _I feel like all I do is lie sometimes._

“Did -- “ _he_ “-- it say anything else?”

Liz huffed a half-chuckle. “The IQ -- interstellar questioner -- asked about Shelby.”

His voice was detached, his eyes on the gravel: “I’d searched my phone, tried to guess how you’d known her name. I didn’t tell you about her and Walt said he'd never talked about her with Arturo.”

He could hear the smile in her voice: “A little birdy on Saturn told me about it.” He glanced up and she was looking down at him. She settled slowly to the ground, not crowding him, but close enough to give some comfort. He reached his hand out and though she looked a little surprised, she took it, giving him a hard squeeze.

Her voice was low, firm: “So, the thing is, obviously, this was a big deal. A lot of _absurdly_ powerful people care _a lot_ about this. Obviously, you were good enough to get onto the waiting list yourself. But I told them if you were at CalTech, they could keep an eye on you, in a general sense.”

He frowned, but shelved that for the next 6 hours of their drive to get into; or maybe later, if they couldn't talk about it with Rosa.

She kept going: “What we need to decide is what, if anything, you want to tell them.” She took a long breath. “What I learned, about lying, is you want to keep as close to the truth as possible, without giving your truth away.” She squeezed his hand again. “So, you think for a minute. What is close enough to the truth they can’t disprove it, but will keep anyone from getting hurt?”

Alex felt like he was breathing around a metal band, tightening tighter and tighter and tighter around his ribs. He thought about Michael, about his hands, his eyes. He thought about pulling a car apart and putting it back together again, about changing a hundred rounds of wiper fluid, a hundred tires, a hundred oil set-ups. He thought about Shelby, her hot, huffy breath, her sloppy hair, her big, scratchy paws.

He could breathe again. “There’s crime scene photos showing my Dad was turned into meat salad,” and Liz made an absolutely disgusted face, but Alex kept going, “and nobody knows why.” He paused, speaking slowly: “What if -- I saw a flash of light. A portal. He was trying to kill me and as I was blacking out, I saw a portal. It -- it took the bookcase. The one that had all of his old field manuals. They must have had some kind of Morse code training sheet.” He looked at her levelly. “Do you think that would work?”

She gave him a long, hard look. “What I like about that,” she said, “is it leaves the IQ mysterious. It,” she took a breath, “it doesn’t implicate anyone. Who might need to keep themselves secret.” She swallowed. “I know from keeping these kinds of secrets, Alex. And the safest way to keep them _is to keep them_.”

He nodded, eyes serious. “So, if some people in bad suits come to talk to me, and I keep with that story, do you,” he took a breath. “Do you think I would be ok?”

She bit her lip: “I can’t tell the future, Alejandro. But I think that men in cheap suits _are_ going to come talk to you. And if you tell them this, remind them you’re from Roswell, tell them --”

Alex’s eyes lit up: “My -- my brother Flint said my great uncle was at the original crash site, the place the weather balloon went down.”

“Kyle’s grandpa too; that’s how he died. He got caught-up in the wreckage.” Liz said. Alex worked his jaw and Liz ran her hand down his arm. “I know I said it, but I’m really sorry he treated you that way when we were dating.”

Alex shook his head: “You didn’t know.”

Liz nodded, “But I should have. The signs were there. I just didn’t look for them. Sometimes, when you want something to work so much, you stop looking for evidence it won’t.”

She scrubbed her hands over her face and Alex asked: “How’s Max doing?”

She gave him a sly smile: “He’s good; we’re good. Long distance sucks, but he loves Reed. That man was _built_ for the Pacific Northwest, all broody weather and dramatic coastlines.” She giggled: “He’s probably out, running out over what passes for the moors as we speak.”

Alex happened to know he was probably sitting with Isobel, keeping an eye on her since she’d had a blackout that morning during her early morning class at the Portland Fashion Institute; but that was Max’s secret to manage.

“Sounds like him,” he said. “He’s been really good about keeping up; not everybody wants to talk to me, after what the _Roswell Register_ printed.”

Liz rolled her eyes: “That piece of trash is only good for lining cat boxes and campfire starters.”

“Well, the ‘Master Sergeant Murderer’ title didn’t end up getting me any invitations to cookouts this summer, sorry to say.” Alex said, and Liz shook her head.

“Another good reason to leave it all behind, only come back to visit when you want to. Start a new life, with fewer -- and more selective -- lies than before,” she said. "We missed Pride this year, but we'll go together next summer. It'll be awesome."

He gave her a tentative smile, beginning to stand. “That sounds like a plan.”

Liz stood as well, but paused before heading back to the truck. “I -- I pitched you to join the lab. Not in my section, that’s too close. But there’s a new astronaut program they’re starting, as a feeder for the new private space companies. With your mechanical skills and test scores, you’d get in, no problem.” She looked up to the blue arching sky overhead: “Maybe, in 10 years, you can go up there. Find out what’s really going on. Meet IQ for ourselves.”

Alex followed her gaze, thinking of a bright smile and soft eyes: “I’d do anything to make that happen.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Science Notes:  
>  _For each chapter with a lot of science in it, I'm going to include links to my sources, for those of you who enjoy diving into that stuff as much as I do._
> 
> A bit on the distances in the titles:  
> \- I used kms for reasons that will become obvious soon, but unlike the imperial system, kilometers are defined in absolute terms by the speed of light (though they were originally based off of an Earth-centric definition). Specifically, "The metre is the length of the path travelled by light in a vacuum during a time interval of 1/299 792 458 of a second.” read more here: https://www.measurement.govt.nz/metrology/si-units/metre  
> \- We're also going to use Astronomical Units in a few places here, which you can read about here (though Liz will explain them in detail in the next chapter): https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Astronomical_unit
> 
> Some sources on using wormholes and The Perils of Writing FTL Travel:  
> \- https://io9.gizmodo.com/how-to-write-a-killer-space-adventure-without-breaking-5943934  
> \- https://diymfa.com/writing/conventional-space-travel  
> \- https://www.livescience.com/building-a-wormhole-with-cosmic-strings.html  
> \- https://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/SoYouWantTo/WriteAHardScienceFictionStoryWithSpaceTravel
> 
> A bit more on the space infrastructure we relied on in this chapter:  
> \- This fic would not exist if it were not for the Wikipedia Page listing all of dozens of potentially habitable exo-planets. I spent so much time exploring this page, it's an amazing bit of science communication and research: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_potentially_habitable_exoplanets  
> \- More info on the place where Alex is taking off: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Baikonur_Cosmodrome  
> \- We actually have already tried to communicate with the Gliese system; they'll get a message from the Ukrainian Space Agency in 2029: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gliese_581c#A_Message_from_Earth  
> \- SETI is such a fun non-profit, check it out if you haven't already: https://seti.org  
> \- More info on the Shasta-based Allen Telescope Array: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Allen_Telescope_Array
> 
> I made a quick mention of Alex's limb-loss being an advantage in space -- this is actually a pretty commonly discussed topic amongst people who dream of spaceflight:  
> \- https://blogs.scientificamerican.com/observations/the-case-for-disabled-astronauts/  
> \- https://space.nss.org/disability-can-be-a-superpower-in-space/  
> https://ir.library.louisville.edu/cgi/viewcontent.cgi?article=1320&context=honors  
> \- https://www.wired.com/story/its-time-to-rethink-whos-best-suited-for-space-travel/
> 
> Here's my favorite quote about it, from the above-linked article:
> 
> "Myers was one of 11 men specifically recruited by Dr. Ashton Graybiel to help test the feasibility of human spaceflight, at a time when nobody knew whether the human body could withstand a trip beyond our atmosphere. For nearly a decade, the US Navy put 11 men through countless tests. Four of the men spent 12 straight days inside a 20-foot room that rotated constantly. In another experiment, they were sent out to notoriously rough seas off the coast of Nova Scotia. On the boat, the men played cards while the researchers were so overcome with seasickness that they had to cancel the test and go home. Others were sent up in the so-called “Vomit Comet,” an aircraft designed to simulate zero gravity. That’s the test Myers is still most fond of. “This free floating was a fascinating experience,” he says. “No other tests came close as my favorites.” But Myers and the other men would never go to space. In fact, they would never be allowed. They were recruited for these tests for the exact reason they would never pass the NASA astronaut qualification exams: All 11 men were deaf." (Note, I'd write it d/Deaf, but that's not what the article did)


	3. Distance: 0.00003km

It’s not a memory if it’s something you see every day. 

It’s a trigger and it’s not one Michael wants to ever let go of.

When he was 17, Michael saved Alex Manes from being choked to death by his bigot father, ripping a portal back to his homeworld in the process. 

He didn’t want to go.

BACK UP.

Being so, so full, as Alex held onto him like he never wanted to let go, like Michael was _his_ and _special_ and _now he was moving inside him --_

BACK UP.

“I can’t believe I get to do this with you, you’re _incredible --”_

BACK UP.

Michael watched as Alex’s face fell as he stepped back, dusty smell of the shed rising around them.

“We don’t have to, if you don’t want to -- “

Michael couldn’t let Alex think this was his fault. He reached out trying to tell him with his body how much he wanted this, wanted _him_. He just --

“It’s -- it’s not that. I don’t want to lie to you and,” and he dug his fingers into his hair, gripping _hard_ , like Isobel had taught him, to help him work his way out of anxiety attacks. “I feel like all I do is lie sometimes, you know? But I don’t want to lie to you.”

“Ok -- what lie are you telling right now?” 

Michael forced the words out, almost laughing: “That I’m human?”

“I mean, don’t we all feel --” and Michael couldn’t _couldn’t_ keep this --

“No!” and Alex flinched and that flinch told him symphonies. He followed his glance to his house, the one place Alex should feel safe.

“No, I,” and Max was going to kill him but he had to say it: “I’m not human. Like, really, really not human -- “

Michael’s heart squeezed at the face-journey Alex was going, but before Alex could offer to help him get committed, he flicked his fingers. The condom his fingertips had nudged while they were kissing slipped out of the back of Alex’s jeans, spinning it on his fingertip as his face went slack, mouth opening a little, eyes wide and brown and too pretty for words.

Michael pointed his finger to the sky: “I’m from,” and he glanced up.

“Ah,” Alex said, looking down biting his lip. His face lit-up with a smile like the sun: “Super cool.”

Michael felt relief like a waterfall, like all his muscles decided at once that he was safe, that he was ok. He felt a pressure behind his eyes. He’d never thought he could tell _anyone_ , much less that a boy he _liked_ would think his species differentiation was _cool_. 

And then Alex was stepping closer, touching him, and Michael lost whole sections of his higher brain functions. He almost missed what Alex said, he was so focused on his eyes: “-- thank you for trusting me with that.”

_If I cry, is he not going to want to have sex any more?_

Michael didn’t think he _needed_ to cry, but the urge was definitely there; he was just feeling so many feelings. Alex’s thumb moved against his stomach as he asked: “What are you lying about now?”

Michael thought about it, thought about the next lie in the chain he wore around his neck. 

“Sometimes, I’m not homeless. Sometimes, I can sleep on Mr Sander’s couch, with his dog Shelby. He always cooks me breakfast.”

He brushed at his jeans; he was pretty sure he still had some of her rough brown fur on them from last week.

Alex's voice was kind when he said, eyes holding soft understanding but not an ounce of pity when he said: “That’s still sleeping rough by my account, but ok, now I know.” _Both_ of Alex’s hands were on Michael’s bare skin and he thought he was going to _die_ if he didn’t touch him more. But then Alex asked: “What else?”

He’d given himself away and Isobel would be _pissed_ but he couldn’t tell Alex about her or Max, but he didn’t want him to think he was a freak, alone, entirely abandoned on this strange planet. He tried: “There -- there are two others. Like me. Maybe more -- maybe millions. I just don’t know them,” and Michael's voice broke. “They never came for me.”

“Fuck them,” Alex’s eyes were hard and -- Michael could not remember a time someone had been angry on his behalf. Had defended _him_.

He could feel himself tearing up, didn’t know where to put all of his emotions, but maybe he could give them to Alex; he’d keep them safe.

Alex was close enough Michael could smell the sun warmed heat of him, the rich male human smell of him, hands on his skin. “What else?”

“I’ve never done this with anyone I like as much as I like you.”

Alex’s eyes flared wide, like it wasn’t an embarrassing thing to say -- like it was a gift. Michael grinned at him, feeling the heat begin to rebuild under his skin.

He reached for Alex as he came closer, needing to touch him, just a little more (always a little more).

And he’d seen the hesitation in Alex’s eyes, seen how he flinched when Michael raised his voice. He’d been watching him, like you’d watch a sunrise, like you’d take-in a tree in full flower, love a river just for running. 

And he knew Alex needed to run.

So he spun him a fantasy, a story, a lasso made of hope and promise and touch, to pull him off the path that Michael knew, he _knew_ , would lead to pain and distortion of all that Alex held dear, all that was good and tough and bright in him. 

Alex needed safety and calm and love, not to be shoved in a box and left to rot until he couldn’t recognize what was left in the mirror. 

Michael wanted to give that to him. He _wanted_ him, and his warm hands and his quiet step and his come-fight-me clothes. He wanted _him_ and _them_ _together_.

Alex’s face was a mess of emotions when Michael was done spinning, fear and heartbreak and affection and hope -- and under all that, longing. 

A longing so intense Michael could almost taste it. 

_He wants to be free_. 

“I -- I like dogs.”

And Michael laughed. He wasn’t sure how anyone could dislike Shelby, with her stinky breath and sloppy kisses, but he was glad Alex was ready to be impressed. “That’s good.”

Alex slid an inch closer, like he was testing his welcome, guitar calluses scratching Michael’s skin like he never wanted them to stop. “What else?

Just a little more touch, just a little more -- Michael pressed his forehead against Alex’s and shared his air, shared his space, and just _breathed._

Michael kept his voice quiet: “I got a full ride to UNM. I’m gonna be an agricultural engineer.” He spun it out, giving Alex a future to hold onto, to _grip_ , strong enough to get him out of this house, to decide he _deserved_ out of this house. “I’m in international house and I’ve got a single. You can come live with me in the Fall. We’ll get out, together.”

And there it was, that flush of hope, right across Alex’s face, right down to his toes, fingers moving across Michael’s skin lighting up the star paths, holding onto him like Michael was suddenly some stable thing, some anchor in a constantly-moving world. “Yeah?” 

“What’ll I do while you’re in class?”

Michael slipped his hand down his side, idly exulting in the shiver Alex gave him, the way his eyelashes fluttered at the feeling: “Write music, mug strange jocks for their pocket money, cause havoc,” and then he wanted to make it clear, what he was offering, what he wanted _so desperately_ for Alex to accept: “Be free.”

“Yeah,” Alex said, and it felt like a wedding promise; it felt like a vow.

“Yeah,” Michael said, moving his lips in just a little bit closer, tracing the shape of Alex’s cheek. He whispered: “But that’s not for another two weeks.” 

“Yeah?”

“In the meantime,” Michael pressed them close to each other, finally, _finally,_ “I have something I want to do with you.”

Alex closed the gap, gave Michael everything he’d ever wanted -- closeness, connection, _home_ : “God, Michael, please --”

GO FORWARD.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are life!


	4. Distance: 223,461,879,597,235km

**13th day of 1 **0,** 201,992  
**

Michael opened his eyes to an auburn sky and a pounding headache. There were pieces of paper drifting lazily above him, spiraling between the grey boulders that surrounded him. He could breathe; not how he’d thought it would go.

He’d been in the stars -- _had he?_ \-- and felt the most horrific _cold_ he’d ever felt in his entire life, worse than the Christmas eve he’d slept in the downtown Roswell gazebo. Now, his arms felt heavy crossed over his bare chest, and his back was digging into some kind of gravel, and his ears were _aching_ at the roar of the hurricane over the stone circle he’d found himself laying in. The rocks were keeping out the worst of the wind, keeping most of the scattered pages drifting over his head -- though as he watched, one spun up above the head of the boulder and ripped out of sight.

Michael pressed his palm to the ground: the dirt felt weird under his fingertips, slippery like the graphite inside of a pencil, but crumbly like the gravel at Sanders’ lot. He sat-up and the wind hit him from the side, nearly pushing him to the ground. He shivered, wrapping his arms around stomach, the skin Alex had just been touching.

And then he heard it -- felt it really.

A screaming, a happy colliding, a calling: _Here, here, here, you’re_ _here_.

Then a feeling, a direction, like someone had pinched his rib from the inside, like when Isobel wanted him to follow her to gossip behind the gym. It came again: _Stay_ _there_ _. We’re coming._

He levered himself up to sitting. One of the pages slapped him in the face, and he pulled it away: it was old, hard to read in the dim red light; it had a diagram of some kind of machine. Michael was having trouble focusing his eyes, everything seemed wrong. He closed them, feeling the grit in the air catching in his eye-lashes. Then he opened them again.

He forced himself to standing, body exhausted, paper held tight in his hands, peering through a break in the boulders as the freezing wind tried to steal his breath: just hanging on the edge of the horizon was a red sun. And high above him, nearly centered over the stones, as massive as a thunder cloud and just as grey was a pale, white sun.

He pulled himself back between the boulders and looked down.

He had two shadows.

_No wonder my depth-perception is fucked._

His heart start to gallop in his chest, terror racing across his nerves. Like a hand to hold, back across the crags and valleys came the words:

 _You’re safe, we’re_ _coming_.

He knelt, gravity pulling him down like weights, trying to breathe. He could still taste Alex, still feel his hands in the back of his jeans. Using his TK, he pulled the surviving pages to him -- torn, dusty and scattered; he crawled around beneath the boulders until he found the binding; it only had the first 10 pages still attached, but he carefully smoothed and tucked each surviving piece of paper back inside of it. The cover said: _Department of the Air Force Technical Order TO 31-3-16: International Morse Code (Instructions), September 1957_. The paper wasn’t all the same size, some sliced clean in half like it had been cut with a guillotine. He guessed when _whatever_ had thrown him through Jesse Manes’s bookcase, he’d sucked whatever he was touching back through with him.

 _Thank God I wasn’t touching Alex_ , Michael thought. The thought of Alex losing a part of himself, just for trying to touch Michael, to _hold onto him_ , was too much to bear.

He felt the same rib-tugging: _We’re coming._ It felt like a mantra, like they were trying to hold onto him.

 _Who?_ He asked; but he had no sense he was understood.

It felt like Iz, in his head, worried and insistant he keep holding on to family; it felt like Max, standing in front of him, tiny fists upheld in the middle school playground his first week in Roswell, standing off any bullies who thought he was fresh meat.

Max had gotten his clock cleaned and Michael had gotten suspended for pulling a knife; but he’d never forgotten that image, little Max’s heaving shoulders, the sense that, _yes_ , for once, he had someone protecting him.

He took a deep breath, and tucked the pile of paper close to this chest. If all he had of Earth were his jeans, briefs and boots, phone and wallet, and whatever these weird military manuals were, he didn’t want to lose any bit of it.

 _I’ve already lost one world, I don’t intend to lose another_.

He wished he’d had something of Alex’s -- one of his bracelets, a guitar pick, _anything_.

_Just 1200 heartbeats, we’re nearly there._

_What?_ He wanted to shout. Now the numbness of finding himself a stranger in a strange land was wearing off, he was starting to get _angry_. _Why_ was he here, _how_ had he gotten here, and _where_ was Alex? _Was he ok?_

“Alex,” he whispered, and found he couldn’t hear his own voice over the screaming wind above him. He swallowed, putting his hand to his throat, to where Jesse had had Alex pinned. He tried again: “Alex.”

His vocal folds were definitely vibrating; he glanced up: it must be the hurricane-force winds, high up above.

He took a breath, mouth open, getting ready to try screaming -- and then immediately snapped it closed, analytical mind finally coming back online as he ran his tongue along his teeth and grimaced at the grit that had gotten into them. 

_Is that why we speak mind-to-mind?_ He thought at whoever was coming for him, _is that why I can’t remember my mother’s voice?_

It wasn’t that he could remember anything else of her, all he had were the cracked bits of colored glass he and Max and Isobel had found in the desert on their monthly camping trips. 

He remembered staying in a hotel in Albuquerque in between placements and asking the domestic worker who’d come to clean his room why there was a big square light above his door. She’d said it was for if a d/Deaf person was using the room during a fire, they would be woken up by the bright, flashing light and know what was happening. He’d wondered if the intricate designs, colors, and shifting and unreadable text on the remains of their ship had been because they came from a world where people didn’t speak.

 _Are you in those boulders?_ Came the voice, and it was getting clearer, now it felt closer.

The tone was low, clear, masculine.

 _Yes_ , he tried to project, but then shook his head in frustration. He looked around the cluster of standing stones, trying to spot if anything was out of place. He saw a glint, a glimmer, under the double shadow of one of the boulders and knelt, muscles straining, hand pressing the papers hard to his bare chest.

It was a nail, a long, thin, rusty nail. Probably kicked up from the floor when _whatever_ it had been had thrown him back into that slip in the universe. He palmed it, slipping it into his back pocket, tip down; he had no idea if they had tetanus shots -- _or if they had tetanus_ \-- on this world, and he didn’t need to risk stabbing himself when he reached back to get it.

He swept his eyes around, trying to see if there was any scrap, any glimpse of anything else from earth left here. When he was sure there was nothing left for him, Michael Guerin squared his shoulders, and stepped out into the grey and red light of the world’s dual suns, putting the rock at his back.

He was near the foot of what someone from New Mexico would call ‘hills’ and someone from Delaware would probably call ‘mountains,’ all mostly bare windswept rock, with flushes or black and purple and blue plants coming in between cracks in what looked like sandstone. The plants were tufted and twisted, small and thick bodied, the colors shifting, mesmerizing. He looked down the slope and saw -- giant crabs.

Michael moved to rub his eyes but then stopped himself, remembering the slick sand he’d coated his fingers in, crawling around the rocks. He blinked, and then blinked again.

There were six of them, striding forward on what would be their hind legs, if they were crabs, occasionally using their middle walking legs to balance as they moved over a boulder.

Their bodies reflected the colors around them, moving and shifting like the plants, like the pieces of his mother’s ship. Unless his perspective was off, they were about twice the size of a human. Their torsos could comfortably fit an adult.

 _Is, is that you?_ He tried to ask.

No reply. 

Michael swallowed, and raised his free hand away from his chest, feeling the dry wind whip sweat away from his underarm: he waved.

The group paused. One of the massive creatures waved back, the one in the middle.

Michael held still, heart beginning to race. If he had to, if he needed to, he could probably roll one of these boulders downhill, crush them. Maybe he could hide in the crags? _Unless they have TK too_.

But then -- what would he do? Try eating some of those plants and hope he doesn’t get poisoned in the first bite? Freeze to death? 

He stared hard as the creature that had waved at him moved through the group, approaching him with steps that he couldn't hear but could feel through the thin and shifting soil that barely covered the hillsides stone. It was getting closer.

Michael shifted his weight, leaning against the boulder, feeling the ache of the heavier gravity against his heels, getting ready to run -- when the thing’s front half unfolded like an origami crane’s wings coming down, and tall man scrambled down out of the cockpit of what Michael guessed was some kind of mecha, wearing a blue body suit that covered everything but his eyes.

The man was waving his hands, walking quickly towards Michael. Michael pressed himself harder against the stone, the man’s size and speed jarring, and the man froze.

Then he shook his head at himself: _Sorry, sorry, sorry_ , he said in what sounded so much like Max’s self-deprecating tone Michael almost had to smile. 

Then the man yanked his hood off, revealing a mass of curly hair that immediately began whipping itself around his head, dark brown eyes and -- a smile. Teeth in the gritty wind, lighting his whole face up smile.

And -- something raw caught in Michael’s chest.

He -- he knew that hair.

He knew that smile. Even if he couldn't remember, he _knew_.

“Dad?”

The man paused, eyes snapping down to Michael's mouth before flaring in dismay. Then he took a breath and spoke through Michael’s mind.

_Yes. Hi. I missed you._

And then the words were like a torrent. _I have no idea how you got here and I had a million things I always promised I would tell you if I ever saw you again and now all I can think is that -- you must be cold and you don’t have anything to wear and --_

He took another breath -- Michael noticed he only breathed through his nose, probably to keep the dust out of his teeth.

 _And you don’t seem to know how to talk this way anymore, but I can show you, but don’t talk with your mouth in front of the others, they’ll freak out. But let’s get you some place out of the wind, ok?_ _If this is ok, make this sign_ , he said, and then tilted his head back and forth.

Michael paused, for a long moment. He pointed to the crowd behind him, the ones still cloistered in their mechas.

 _I -- I don’t know that gesture. But if it means ‘who are they’, they’re my co-farmers, we live 10,000 heartbeats over that_ ridge. He pointed back down the way they'd come. _We doing clearing a new field across the ridgeline when --_ and the man’s eyes were wet now, Michael could see, the emotion in them coming through as clear as a dawn on Earth. _When I heard_ _you_ _. For the first time in 100 cycles, I heard_ _you_.

He swallowed, blinking his eyes, then scraped his hair back behind his ears in a gesture that was so familiar Michael couldn’t breathe for a minute.

“I have to ask 3 questions before I go with you.”

The man flinched again at him speaking aloud, but then said:

 _I think you have a question. Can -- can I come closer? To hear you?_ He glanced up at the dry-wind storm above their heads. _It's almost impossible to hear here._

Michael paused and then carefully made the head-wobble gesture, which Michael figured meant ‘yes.’

He came closer, putting his hands behind his back and leaning so Michael could shout the words into his ear. 

He pulled back, eyes so much like Michael's own he had to clench his jaw. The man said: _Of course, as many questions as you want._ He took a breath. _Would you like to sit? You look_ , and he frowned, rephrasing, _it would be more comfortable I think_.

Michael waited for him to sit first, and then gratefully lowered himself back down to the ground, muscles aching from the increased gravity.

Michael leaned in and shouted: “First: can you sense anyone else out here, anyone who wasn’t here before? I,” he covered his mouth for a second, trying to breathe. “I was with someone, and there was someone else who was trying to hurt him. I need to know if they’re here.”

His Dad closed his eyes, scanning his face from side to side. After a long minute -- maybe a 120 heartbeats with Michael’s heart racing like it was -- he replied:

 _No, I can’t feel anyone. I asked Jax, and they can’t feel anything either. Nobody but you out here on the preserve_.

“Ok,” Michael said. “Two: the three of us crashed on 70 years -- 70 full annual Earth cycles around our star -- ago. We were preserved in pods. How do you look -- you can’t be more than 50 Earth years old?”

The man nodded slowly: _I have a lot of questions about what you just said, but to answer yours: to get here, you had to use,_ he frowned, trying to think of a word, _on Earth, you have plants, like these?_ He pointed up-mountain, towards the thick-stemmed plants.

Michael shook his head yes, fingers tight on the pages against his chest.

_So, these grow in stages, every cycle they add another ring of material. Fifty cycles, 50 rings. But if you took a needle, you could push through all the way to the core in a single hard push, going through all that time-grown space with one burst of energy, right?_

“Wormholes,” Michael said, body beginning to shiver. “Sounds like a wormhole, from _Star Trek_.”

 _I can see what you’re thinking of, and sure, that’s close enough. However you traveled here, you went many, many, many times the speed of light, which means you interacted with time in a way you’re not used to, from living on a planet_.

“Is that -- the theory of special relativity?” Michael asked, and realized his voice was shaking from cold, fuzzy visions of Albert Einstein’s hair floating around his head.

 _I don’t know that term, but if you’re thinking of a theory that explains why aging happens differently in faster-than-light conditions, then that’s right._ The man settled his jaw and then asked, carefully. _You said you had 3 questions and I want to give you all the time you need, but you look really cold_.

Michael set his jaw to stop it from quaking, looking down at his two shadows splayed out before him on the grey ground: “Why can’t you speak?”

And the man -- he flushed. _Here, what you call talking, it’s like stripping naked and rolling around on the floor. Something you can do as a baby or with a lover, but not as an adult in public. We clearly have the equipment to talk,_ he said, hand raising to his voice box, _but ever since we came to this place, and discovered how loud the everstorms are, we just used our telepathy instead. That’s why I can understand you, even though I haven’t heard the language you’re using before. Telepathy, particularly between_ , and he paused for a second, _between family members, it translates concepts and intentions, not just words_. He gave him a half smile: _All you really need to do is to trust I’ll understand you, form the words in your mind like you were about to use your mouth, and then send them to me._ He gave a real smile: _When your Mom and I taught you the last time, we said it was like sending ships between our moons. If you expect a safe docking, you’ll get one_.

Michael took a deep breath, and then bent over, coughing as the grit hit the back of his throat. 

He felt the man lean closer, but then he stopped. Michael appreciated the hell out of him not trying to give him space. It made the crazed fear at the back of his head about going to a strange place with a stranger -- _that had never gone well_ \-- quiet down, because someone who was willing to notice he wanted space was probably willing to keep giving him space.

He took a shallower breath through his teeth, looked the man in the eyes, and tried to trust.

_Can you hear me?_

The man’s eyes filled with hope and he said:

_Yes. Yes, I can. It -- it’s so good to hear your voice._

Michael gave him a faltering smile. _How far is it to your place?_

 _It’s only a 1700 heartbeat walk back to our compound in the valley_ , the man replied quickly. _We have food, clothes, a room with a lock on the inside and not the outside, warmth, and answers to any question you might have._ He gave him a bit of a smile: _Since you can breathe the air here, you can eat anything we can eat, and we should have a lot of clothes for you, you’re just Reik’s size._

Michael held back for a moment: _Do you have a way of contacting Earth, where I was?_

And the man took a long, slow breath. _No. You’re the first news we’ve had of the refugee ship since your mother led them there 100 cycles ago_. 

_But I can get back, right, through these wormholes_?

And his Dad, he sent not just the words, but this incredible, painful wave of loss.

_No, it’s not that simple I’m afraid._

\--

Michael got settled at the compound, whose 20’ walls kept the air inside mostly still, though the fluting on the tops filled the air with a constant multi-tonal drone, just audible over the windstorm that raged high above their heads. His Dad got him bundled up and in front of a heater, something like a superheated piece of what looked like the ship that had crashed landed at Roswell, but in the shape of an ottoman. His Dad whirled around the kitchen, pulling together a wide, shallow bowl of food and what looked like a beaker of water. He gave them to Michael, balancing them carefully on his reed blanket-covered lap, before saying:

_I need to gather the others, make sure they know what's happening. Will you be alright if I leave you with Jax for 1800 heartbeats?_

He glanced over at Jax, who gave him a friendly if wry smile; Michael nodded.

Once his Dad left, Jax said: _I'm going to get to making the evening meal for the group, since it's my turn on shift._ They'd glanced towards the door to the rest of the four dozen homes in the compound, _can I answer any questions for you before the horde arrives?_

Jax's hair as red as the stones of the compound walls and he'd begun to pull silver tins of what looked like dried vegetables and meat from the walls of the room, pulling them from their careful lines like they were magnetically attached to the wall. Michael blinked, vision swimming a little. His eyes were so heavy and the light so dim, he could barely see the plate in front of him, even with his depth perception beginning to adjust; he could smell it was heaped with some kind of crusty bread and something sweet, like a chutney, and he got to eating.

Jax didn't seem offended by his silence, just got to preparing what looked like a stew. As Michael ate, he thought. They'd had a long walk back, mostly Michael trying to put one foot in front of the other while the group carefully kept page with him and, aside from welcoming him in formal language, they didn't try to ask him too many questions. The welcome and then the silence had felt friendly; mature, like they could give him space and would be ready to respond if he needed help, but didn't feel the need to crowd him. Once his vision settled a little, body relaxing from the sweet, cool water and the filling food, he asked:

_It's not the most important question, but it's the only one I can think of right now. The angle between my shadows has been changing, one staying the same and the other moving. Does the red sun over the horizon never set?_

Jax glance at him:

 _The planet, which we call Kalendil, is tidally locked to a red dwarf star. It’s incredibly close to that sun, which is why it rotates and all life survives in the twilit ring between the boiling-hot sunside and the everdark side. It also swings around its star incredibly fast, with each cycle only taking 4,838,400 heartbeats._ Michael would need a calculator to do that math, or at least a sheet of paper. He clutched the broken book more closely to his chest.

Jax kept going, emptying a tin that filled the space with something like a cross between cinnamon and cloves: _That’s why we’ve got the forever storm up there_ , they said, pointing to the cataclysm clouds high above their heads, _wind is caused by differences in pressure and the difference between the hot and cold sides of our planet makes for a constant, furious storm. That’s why all of our flying creatures live in this band with us._

 _Thanks_ , Michael said. He took a breath through his teeth. _Do -- do you think he'd be mad, if I went to take a nap? I know you said the horde was arriving --_

Jax put down their spoon, resting their hands on their hips and blinking quickly. _We'll teach you to shield and I am sorry for prying but -- I understand why you ask that question. Why so many men in your world have earned the fear and distrust you feel. My words won't change that, nor should they. You will observe we are safe and respectful and that can grow your sense of safety, your good opinion. But I will say, your father wants you to be happy. We all do. We all mourned your mother and you and the others having to leave, though we understood the reasons why. If he comes back and you are asleep, he will be glad you are sleeping. If he comes back and you are awake, he will be glad you are awake._

Jax raked their hands through their thick, straight hair, about as long as Rosa's was. _Rosa_ , Michael thought with a pang, and Jax's face moved.

 _Is that one of your friends?_ _Where you were?_

Michael blinked, muttering in his mind: _I've got to figure out this shielding thing fast._

He heard Jax laugh. _There's a lot of techniques and it takes a lot of practice, but the most basic technique is to think of blue, any color of blue you like._ They gave Michael a swirling, whirling mix of pale and deeper blues, from Earth-sky to navy dark. _That's the color we use to mean 'stop' and it will keep everyone from prying until you learn more advanced methods._

 _Ok,_ Michael thought, _on Earth, we might hold up a hand, or shake our heads if we wanted out of a conversation_. _I figure there's different ways to do things in every culture. Like, back on earth, people who look like me point with their fingers, but in Diné culture, a lot of people point with their lips._

Jax wobbled their head, eyes smiling. _You sound just like your mother, always curious about other worlds,_ a look of something like sadness moved across their face, _This world was hard for her. I hope it will be easier for you_. _That you can find a home here._

Michael thought of blue --blue New Mexico skies, a blue suit at prom, and blue vortex pulling him away -- as hard as he could, even as, deep inside he thought, _I'm not sure this can be home._

\--

**5th day of 10,201,993**

Michael kept asking questions:

_How long is a heartbeat? I assume there's some kind of standard?_

His Dad grinned at him and Michael bounced on his heels. Then his father gestured for a pair of shears to separate two seedling mecha engines that had begun to intertwine around each other in the orchard: _you're right, a ‘heartbeat’ is a standard of measurement here._ He raised his hands and clapped the rhythm.

Michael said: That’s _about two to an Earth second_.

 _If you say so_ , his father said easily. _Can you left that root for me?_

Michael squinted at it, using his TK to shift the root as his father rearranged the chest-sized engine.

As they moved to the next tree, Michael said: _I always ran hot, and my heart went faster than the humans I knew_ , he said, and then he thought of Alex’s chest under his hands and immediately shuttered the thought. He was learning to keep some thoughts to himself, but he wasn’t good enough at it to want to risk embarrassing them both, like he had when he’d broadcast a dream of that last night with Alex to the entire compound and Jax had had to pound on his door to get him to stop.

 _If a cycle is 4 million heartbeats, that makes it about_ , and he did some math in his head. _About 28 Earth days. Wow. Jax was right, this planet_ _does_ _go fast._

 _Does it?_ His father asked, carefully separating the engines. _How long is a cycle on Earth?_

_365 days. I’m 18, by Earth counting --_

His father nodded: _So, 234 cycles. That’s about how old you look, so I’m glad that math works out. Help me with this?_

He gestured to one of the seedlings and Michael knelt, taking half the weight as they nudged it over to a bit of prepared earth. As they eased its root system into the mostly-undisturbed soil, Michael asked:

_So, how did you all decide on how long a day is? Since the pale star --_

_Exchelon_.

Michael wobbled his head in agreement. _Yeah, since Exchelon rises and sets about four times a cycle, as the red dwarf --_

 _Killion_.

 _Yeah, as we spin around Killion, Killion spins around Exchelon_ \-- and before his father could interrupt -- _and once every five lifetimes, both Killion and Exchelon complete a circuit around Gillion._ He flashed a smile. _I do listen when Reik’s kids come over to teach me their school lessons_.

His father sent a fond feeling and Michael kept going: _But who decided how long a day is?_

His father kept nudging the different parts of the root ball into the ground, careful of the skittering lavendar lizards that kept the smaller pests from harassing the crops.

Michael could hear how the roots vibrated, trying to help, comforting as Shelby's heartbeat under his cold hand.

Once they were set in the earth, his Dad carefully covered and tamped down the earth over the roots. As he worked, he spoke: _We had a religion, when we came here a long time ago. Most people have a different one now, but in the old one, there were ten gods. So we divided the cycle into 30 parts, with three days per god, and once every 10 cycles we have a short year -- only 20 days -- to keep us on cycle. There’s massive parties for the whole year, and it lets us know when to harvest, when to plant. It kept being useful long after those old gods faded to memories, with only some traditionalists still keeping up the old rituals. But for everyone else, it was a good enough structure for a life, so why not keep it?_

Michael looked up: _The pale star, Exchelon, it looks about seven times bigger than our sun, but it’s so pale, like we’re seeing it through a cloud._

His father replaced the last of the dirt, smoothing it over before gesturing, using his TK to bring over a bag of gravel to use as lithic mulch. He began to spread it around the base of the seedling

 _It’s not a cloud, that’s just how bright Exchelon is_. _Just warm enough for us to grow our crops, using runoff from the glaciers in the everdark side, channeled through aqueducts. There have been those who tried to build societies outside of the twilit area, the zone of habitation, but the heat requires too much energy to cool and the cold too much energy to heat._ He patted the last of the gravel down and hefted himself to his feet. _Better to stay here, where we know the land grows enough for us to live._ He leaned down, pinching off a damaged leaf, tearing it in half and offering half to Michael. He took a bite -- it tasted like raspberry jam. He smiled, savoring the taste.

They took the fast route to the compound, right through the orchard, and not the longer, deeply worn path his father had shown him, had told him he used to walk to ease Michael to sleep when he was a baby. The same path he walked every day for years after they left, trying to calm his mind. It was a path worn deep and narrow by his feet.

As they ducked around the larger, nearly-grown engines, Michael wondered aloud: _The old rituals, do they explain why we look like we do? To me, we look -- well, human._

His father glanced over at him: _Well, I’d say humans look like us. But there’s two major theories._

He held up one finger: _Convergent evolution. Maybe there’s just something about bilaterally symmetrical, warm blooded, live-young bearing, opposable-thumb-having, big-brained species that makes us a popular shape. Like crabs._

Michael nearly laughed aloud before he just sent the feeling over to his father instead. _What the fuck?_

He father grinned: _Carcinisation: the habit of living things to, when given enough time, evolve into crabs. We have six different, entirely different, species here that all ended up being basically crabs. Six legs, hard shell, small brain, big pinchers_. He gestured to one of the mechas, broken down at the edge of the orchard. _That’s why the work vehicles look like that. It is a_ _really_ _efficient shape._

 _Ok,_ Michael snorted. _What’s the other theory?_

 _Well_ , he said, glancing over, _it kind of has to do with you._

_What?_

_Well, how you got here, at least_. His father paused, reached up to pinch off a misshapen gear so the tree could focus on growing the healthier ones. _See, sometimes, when our people_ _really, really_ _need to leave someplace, to save their life or the life of someone they love, we can tear a new wormhole in the universe and slip away from danger. Now, most of these only exist for about as long it takes for someone to travel through them, away from harm and to safety. Other times, with enough need and enough energy, we can build wormholes that stick, that last for generations. Some people think we came here, went to Earth, spread out across the stars, that way._

He gestured up to the sky. _There are networks we built to span the universe. The oldest is about 3 millions years old. They can fit ships, comets, some are big enough to fit whole planets. There were people -- the people your mother and I were fighting, the people who we defeated and now peacefully share a government with -- who wanted to make more of those wormholes. Who wanted to control where they went. They called themselves the Alighting, because they wanted to dance from star to star, taking what they wanted, never giving anything back. They wanted to strip mine galaxies, pull down whole planets to get at was inside._ He worked his jaw. _They dreamed big, but never had the power to do it. Doing what you did, making a portal like that, it's incredibly rare. Incredibly difficult. They only had one or two members who'd done it, and then only once or twice. And we thought that, that natural limit, would be enough to stop them._ He turned to one of the trees, voice tight. _We were wrong._

He graced his hand down the rough metallic bark of the tree, tugging one of the gears to see if it was ripe yet. When it did not come away easily in his hand but flared in pale blues and browns, he let it be. _In secret,_ _these people, they bred children. They used cloning to try to hone in on that ability, the ability to build gateways between worlds, stable ones that could be used for commerce_.

His hand turned to a fist. _Or for war. Some people are not happy enough to be farmers of food and useful things, they need to control everything and are willing to hurt people to do it. They thought, it they could just keep cloning their leader, honing in and in and in, they would get a breed of children who could create these portals __at will_ _, not just in extremis._

He glanced over at Michael: _Max, the one you grew up with, he was one of them._

Michael wanted to ask more, more about the Alighting, more about the war, but as he watched his father blink back tears, he found he couldn’t.

He just said: _Well, if Max knows how to create portals, he’s never shown it_. _He probably would have used one to get to wherever Liz Ortecho was at any given moment if he could_.

His father gave a damp huff. _No, that’s the thing. No matter what they did to these kids, how they hurt them, they couldn’t breed that trait in. They couldn’t genetically engineer it, they couldn’t select for it. It comes from something,_ and he pressed his hand to his chest, _something not in the bone. Not in the blood. Someplace else_.

_Is that why I can’t go back, just to check on them?_

_Yes, the likelihood you’d ever make a portal like that again is incredibly low._ He gave Michael a dry smile, _there’s that, and the fact that I could sell this farm and every farm in this quadrant and not have enough money for fuel to get you to orbit, for you to use one of the existing wormholes, to get close enough to Earth to try. The guild families that control those routes, they make those trips so expensive it’s a once-in-a-lifetime, once in a generation thing_. He glanced up at the sky: _And our family already took that trip once._

\--

Every day, Michael asked questions and grew, and grew.

Every day, Michael asked how to contact Earth, and every day, it was the same answer: it’s impossible.

The science, Michael could spend the rest of his life learning and be happy. The physical stuff too, he picked up on. After a half year -- that is, two Earth weeks -- of feeling like he’d had the flu and gotten run over by a Mac truck and dragging himself out of bed anyway, Michael got used to the gravity. His lungs could breathe the air, though it was a different blend of nitrogen and oxygen than he’d ever experienced on Earth, it felt -- natural. For him. The food was good and plentiful, the water clear and cold, brought through aqueducts from the ice glaciers on the everdark side of Kalendil.

The politics, those were harder to understand, perhaps because no one in the compound could talk about them without pain. There had been a terrible war, one nearly no one would speak much of; his mother had been a gun runner, or a war general, or city killer. That too, was hard to get the details on. In a world where people could grow weapons, farmers and soldiers were close enough the concepts tended to merge.

And every night, Michael put himself to sleep by going over every detail of that last day with Alex, one hand on the book he’d painstakingly pieced together. He remembered every kiss, every touch, every kind word, every future-plan.

And he tried to figure out how he could get back. To Max. To Isobel. To Shelby. _To Alex._

Not necessarily forever, but for long enough to know -- were they ok? Did they miss him? Had Alex survived having a portal opened feet away from him? Or had Jesse killed him?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Science Notes:  
>  _For each chapter with a lot of science in it, I'm going to include links to my sources, for those of you who enjoy diving into that stuff as much as I do._
> 
> Here's some more information on Gliese 667Cc:  
> \- https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gliese_667  
> \- A video tour with nice chill music: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uyFS-1dQJNY  
> \- A video tour with facts: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7LUlwpX48NM  
> \- What it means to be tidally-locked: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tidal_locking  
> \- An interactive model you can (and I did) play with: https://exoplanets.nasa.gov/exoplanet-catalog/6541/gj-667-c-c/  
> \- A proposal for what life might look like there: https://www.mn.uio.no/astro/english/research/news-and-events/news/archive/2012/astronews-2012-02-17.html  
> \- The Netflix documentary series _Alien Worlds_ has an entire episode (Janus) about life on a tidally-locked planet that orbits a red dwarf. If you have Netflix, it is not only a really cool 4 part documentary on different kinds of exoplanets with some really Grade A visual effects for different alien life forms, but it also has an excellent balance of women scientists, POC scientists, and the Same White Guys You See In Every Documentary. Particularly excellent is the second at the beginning of the 2nd episode, where Kennda Lynch, Astrobiologist and African American woman in science, goes to the Great Rift Valley to search for extremophiles in the sulfur pools there.
> 
> Why aren't the plants green?  
> \- https://heteromeles.com/2018/07/14/vegetation-on-a-red-dwarf-world/  
> \- https://www.newscientist.com/article/dn11578-for-plants-on-alien-worlds-it-isnt-easy-being-green/
> 
> A bit more on what habitability means:  
> \- https://manyworlds.space/2020/08/10/how-many-planets-in-a-habitable-zone-can-orbit-a-host-star/  
> \- https://www.antipope.org/charlie/blog-static/2018/07/unsustainable-interstellar-civ.html  
> \- https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Habitability_of_red_dwarf_systems
> 
> I got the idea of the deeply walked orchard paths from the Tsankawi, part of the Bandelier National Monument in New Mexico across from Los Alamos. The paths here are walked by Tewa-speaking Pueblo people. I walked them in February and they do in fact go up to my hips: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tsankawi
> 
> And here's the morse code manual Michael used: http://www.n4mw.com/tm11-459.pdf


	5. Distance: 223,461,879,597,230km

**7th day of 10,202,101**

Michael couldn't stop asking questions.

He didn't know how to, not even when the answers made him feel like someone was standing on his chest, had his cruel hand wrapped around his throat.

Exchelon was dawning pale over the high horizon when Michael ran across the open heart field towards the engine orchards, tears blurring his eyes worse than the grit in the air did. He didn’t know how to explain to the compound that he _needed_ to go back to Earth; that the miracle of his arrival wasn’t always such a miracle _to him_.

It was just all so _different_. So fucking _silent_. And the thing was, he knew he couldn’t scream out here, that the farmers would get scared. Just like he knew he couldn’t stomp on the ground, because every square cubit was used for farming, on the rare land good enough to grow what they needed to live. In the eight cycles he’d been here, he’d realized how much work had gone into making the lands around the compound bountiful, how impossibly hard much of this world was.

The gently pulsing hearts could only really be grown on land like this, terraced into the darkly striped metamorphic cliffs, lit by the constant twilight of the world whenever the pale white Exchelon wasn’t in the sky. 

As he ran into the engine orchards, the now massive parts growing from the trees obscured Exchelon, and he knew he only had an hour before everyone was in the fields. Jax had encouraged him to start using the local time units, saying it would make it easier to adjust. But for all he’d dreamed every night for _years_ about seeing his home planet, all he could feel right now was _loss_. _Loss_ for his scholarship and his dreams, _loss_ for not even being able to _sense_ Max and Isobel. _Loss_ for --

He crouched to the ground, back against a metallic-feeling trunk, arms around his knees, crying as silently as he knew how, surrounded by the strange smells and sounds and the fine vibrations of these orchards.

His side was beginning to ache from running in the high gravity, wearing the masked suit they all used to go outside and he made a small sound, his ears aching to hear it. 

He tried to remember the sound of Alex’s guitar, of Isobel’s laugh; but he was starting to forget anything but the sound of the hurricane force winds that howled over their shielded valley. The hill-mounted technology that protected them was generations and generations old, but it let everything but the wind in: the sound of it, the gentle rain of black dust when it kicked across the spare deserts on the sunside, the smells it brought from across the landscape that told natives of this place as much as the direction of the sun or the smell of a river might tell someone from a southwestern desert.

“Native,” he muttered, scrubbing his gritty palms against his eyes; he knew he was technically a native of this planet. That he’d been born here, had lived here for the equivalent of 7 Earth years. Alex hadn’t talked a lot about his family, about his Mom, but he knew he was Diné. He wondered if Alex would understand what it was like, being in a culture he was supposed to understand like his body understood how to breathe air that swasn't Earth-standard 78% nitrogen and 21% oxygen, 1% other.

He _wanted_ Alex here. He _wanted_ Isobel and Max here. No matter how friendly his Dad and Jax and Reik and the rest were, he _missed_ Earth.

He took a breath of the not-air. He took another, using the narrowly-pursed lips everyone used to keep most of the grit in the air out of his lungs.

His father had taught him that. His father worked with him in these orchards nearly every single day, except when he took the transport mechas to market. In his first Kalendil year, after work, they'd walked a route around the orchards that took about 7000 heartbeats. It was the path his father had walked often after his mother had left with Michael, for 100 cycles. The ground was worn down deep into the dirt, so that when they had walked, the soft dark stone rose up around their hips, space just enough for a single, lonely man to walk. Michael had walked it -- run, mostly -- feet in a line, hands slapping down on the stone as he stumbled and galloped beside the field of hearts. He ran when he couldn't bear being the only one who remembered _music_ or knew what it was to live beneath a blue sky, to sleep in a truly dark world. _What I wouldn't give for Iz's old CD player and some My Chemical Romance CDs; I'd even take Hank Williams over this constant silence._ As he sat, trying to breath in the orchards, he thought about what might make a man walk like that, walk and walk and walk. He thought about how he had survived, about how strong the bodies of his people were.

 _Could_ his Mom have survived the crash? _Could_ she still be alive?

Would the dangling promise of that be enough to get his father to work _with_ him, rather than trying to sooth him into some perfect teenager, some kind of person who could accept never knowing what became of his friends, his family on Earth? To actually _help_ him? If they could only communicate with earth, they could check on his Mom and Michael -- Michael could make sure Alex was alive.

He picked himself up off the ground, a squirming feeling in his stomach. He would try. He _had_ to try. He started walking towards that path, the one worn hip-deep into the stone.

His father met him on the path. He met Michael’s eyes, his own as sad as Michael felt inside, the same raw-faced terror at getting this _wrong_. He sat first and Michael sat beside him, feet swinging in the depression of the path. His father gave him space, letting the silence speak before filling it. 

His Dad said: _I’m glad you’ve found solace in these orchards; your Mom cared for them for a long, long time._

Michael swallowed. _After Jax told me -- again -- it was impossible to get a message to Earth, I broke one of the cups. I’ll fix it._

 _Sounds like a plan_ , his father said, voice even. _Jax said to say they were sorry, they know it’s a hard subject for you._

Michael shook his head: _I was thinking of telling you I think Mom might be alive, to try to convince you to help me get a message there_. He hunched his shoulders. _But that would be a dick move. You miss her and I don’t want to use that against you._ He flashed for a moment on all of the times people had given him something to value -- a toy, a book, once, horribly, a kitten -- and then took it away to control him. He knew the sense of those moments carried across the bond with his father, but he was sure he’d kept the specifics to himself. He'd learned control, these past 8 cycles. He finished the thought: _I don’t want to be like that_.

His Dad nodded sadly: _I know you don’t, Michael. I trust you to tell the best truth you know how_. He took a deep breath, through pursed lips. _I have been ignoring you, your wishes, because they do not align with mine. For a long time, I'd wished for a time machine, for a way to travel back to a time that never was_. He gestured to the humming orchards: _Your Mom, she came here to grow engines for the revolution; as much as I wanted it, she was never happy here._ _Could_ _never be happy here, no matter how much I tried._ He rubbed his hands through his hair. _And yes, the thought she is alive and captive -- because she would have to be captive, to leave you homeless as a child, nothing,_ _nothing_ _short of imprisonment could have stopped her caring for you, Michael -- that thought has torn at me._

He tilted his head: _But that is not why I’m going to help you. Now. Today. She left -- all of the leaders of the Alighting and of the resistance -- left to give us all peace. Their leaders in chains, ours charged with keeping them from harming others. It tore me in half to see her go, but she was at the negotiating table, she knew peace could not grow in the same ground that they'd spilled blood on, if_ _those who’d led the war still walked free. If she needs help, I would give it in an instant. I would give her anything, even her freedom_. _Even you_. 

He took another careful breath: _And I love you like I love her. And I love you enough to make sure you are free. And while I would have loved for you to find the home here your mother couldn’t, maybe you’re the same starfarer in her soul that she was. Maybe still is._ He patted his hand on the ground, like a judge banging a gavel, and Michael found himself impossibly grateful that he didn’t have to suppress a wince, that this man didn’t remind him of every other large man who’d made loud sounds around him. That he'd learned to feel safe with his father. _So I will help you. I will help you because you ask it of me and it is in my power to help_. He gave Michael a wry smile. _I even have an idea of where to start_.

Michael’s heart was pounding in his chest, blood hot in his veins. _Yeah?_

 _Yeah_ , his Dad said with a sly look. _You know how your mother was the weapon’s mistress of the resistance?_

_\--_

**18th day of 10,202,102**

It turned out, as part of the peace treaty, the resistance to The Alighting had agreed to mothball all of their nuclear devices -- _literal_ _ten of thousands_ _of nuclear devices because Michael’s Mom apparently did not fuck around_ \-- on a quiet moon, pending a suitable elimination plan.

It also turned out, the peacetime coalition government, including the trade guilds who controlled access to space, _adored_ the idea of blowing them all up 22.18 light years away. It took a cycle of meetings, but in the end, they agreed to ship Michael, a mining crew, and all of the missiles to what Michael identified as the C-ring of Saturn, with the goal of beginning communication and determining if any of the surviving resistance and Alighting leaders had survived their flight to Earth.

It had been Michael's idea to use Morse Code, and his Dad's idea to use the nukes. The peacetime coalition government had been sweating for 100 cycles about the devices being stolen, and free method of disposing of them delighted their merchant hearts.

Michael had the vague impression the peacetime coalition government were hoping to include any survivors in something between a Peace and Reconciliation Commission and a war crimes trial, depending on who was speaking. Michael didn't like the idea of his Mom on trial, but since he knew how expensive and difficult spaceflight still was on Earth, they felt safe nodding along to that part of the plan.

And that’s how, with the help of the 4th page of the _Department of the Air Force Technical Order TO 31-3-16: International Morse Code (Instructions), September 1957_ Michael had pieced together, Michael Guerin found himself on his first intentional spaceship ride of his life, in a decommissioned mining shuttle, with a small team of scientists ready to help him program the nukes to go off in specific intervals. The coalition government dedicated a receiver probe, carefully shielded against the blasts, to see if Earth managed to transmit anything back.

The wormhole between their moon and Saturn's rings was disused, but in good working order. Michael and his team would pop through, check the probe for messages, set the ordinance for replies, and then slip back to their quarters on the moonbase.

\--

 **Distance: 987,930,000km  
**4th day of 10,202,110

It took an Earth year for Michael to question the CalTech team into discovering Caulfield Prison.

It took a month, and Liz Ortecho’s threat to take it to the press, for them to close it.

Michael’s Mom and Dad spoke for the first time in decades:

.... --- .-- .----. .-. . / - .... . / ... - .- .-. ... / - .... . .-. . --..-- / -... . .- ..- - .. ..-. ..- .-.. ..--..

“How’re the stars there, beautiful?” Michael’s father sent.

\- .... . -.-- .----. -.. / -... . / -... . - - . .-. / .. ..-. / -.-- --- ..- / .-- . .-. . / .... . .-. . .-.-.- / .. / .-.. --- ...- . / -.-- --- ..- / -... --- - .... / ... --- / -- ..- -.-. .... .-.-.-

“They'd be better if you were here. I love you both so much.” She replied.

With his Mom’s help, Sheriff Michelle Valenti was able to find and capture the man who the survivors of the crash had imprisoned, the leader of the Alighting who looked so much like Max it was a good thing Michelle had already known about aliens. The man called himself Mr Jones. She also found another man, one who’d survived the crash in a damaged pod, and took them both to Nora and the other survivors to manage.

People on Earth had started calling Michael’s people Gliessians, since according to Earth astronomy they were on Gliese 667 Cc. To them, Gillion was Gliese A, Exchelon was Gliese B, and Killion was Gliese C.

Michael never told the CalTech team his name, explaining away his use of American English and interest in Alex with some fantasy about his people listening in to Air Force radio broadcasts, that his family had been following the Manes and the Valentis ever since the crash, trying to find their survivors. That he’d heard Alex Manes’s name by listening in to Jesse Manes’s radio transmissions between his bunker and Caulfield, heard regular updates on his rebellious son and gotten invested, the way Earth people do in TV shows. And, one day, the transmissions had stopped. Maichael told them that he figured the only Manes likely to be sympathetic to his cause to help him find his missing shuttle was the one Jesse Manes hated, so he’d sent the CalTech team looking for him.

Michael thought this sounded like utter bullshit. There was no one way one of his people would think to search audio transmissions, nor be able to understand them without the mind-to-mind communication they relied on.

But no one on Earth knew that.

And since everyone but Liz, Rosa, Alex, Max, Isobel, Walt, (and, he liked to think, Shelby) had assumed Michael Guerin (sometimes of Roswell, NM, age 18), was somewhere dead in a ditch, no one ever put together that their Interstellar Questioner and Liz’s occasional-lab partner.

Liz made sure Alex faded from the spotlight, which seemed to be his preference. Michael couldn’t push to talk to him, but he got occasional updates. He knew he was doing well in school; he knew he was living off of Jesse’s life insurance; he knew he was studying to be an astronaut along with it seemed like everyone he’d gone to high school with; he knew Shelby had made a friend from the junkyard cat and Alex could be found cuddling both of them at every school break possible.

He made sure she could tell Alex about him, giving hints on the Interstellar Questioner’s home life, dreams, and ambitions that seemed to fascinate the scientific community, but were really updates tailored for a single pair of darkly lined eyes.

And it was possible, entirely possible, that Michael and Alex could have grown into their new lives, far apart but with fond memories.

Except for Mr. Jones.

\--

 **Distance: 223,461,879,597,235km  
**17th day of 10,202,112

Michael was standing before the trade guilds in a massive auditorium, all auburn light and shining brass-lined walls, bright under a high, arching ceiling. He was 27 Earth years old, had just flown himself back from another trip through the wormholes to Saturn. He was responsible for hundreds of communications with Earth and the depletion of ⅔ of the remaining wartime nuclear stockpile.

 _Earth is asking for our help navigating the wormhole network._ He said, sharing images of what they would think of as primitive earth rockets that he remembered seeing on TV. _They want to know what we want in exchange, if this is help we will offer_.

The representative of the fuel alliance workers steepled her fingers. _We don’t want any of our people back. Their absence has allowed peace to flourish_.

And Michael had suspected this, as much as it had hurt his father, his Dad had agreed. His Mom could not leave Earth, not and preserve the peace she had traded her freedom for. Michael knew she was living out her remaining years with the other survivors in Roswell, with a healthy settlement from the government and one monthly message through the CalTech team to his satellite.

 _Agreed_. _As you remember, the leader of the Alighting -- going by the name Mr Jones -- was the one to tell the Earth governments about the wormhole network before his eventual re-capture and execution. But none of the other survivors have asked to leave, nor would they be allowed to,_ he replied easily, using the head-wobble that was now as natural as a nod had been before. _They provided some suggestions, but wanted to know your preferences first_.

There a silence as hundreds of guild members in the stands and their representatives around the circular central table all looked between each other.

The representative for the miners gestured: _What can they offer?_

 _As you know, I lived for 130 of our cycles on Earth. And as you know, they lack the mind-to-mind communication we have, so they have developed -- or perhaps, retained -- other communication options. I know it will be distasteful to those present here, but they use their mouths to communicate_.

There were looks of disgust across the room.

Michael let them simmer down before continuing: _But they have also used this technique to create what they call music -- the use of instruments, and sometimes voices, to share meaning. If you will accept it, I have prepared an example._ He raised his hands: _Don’t worry, I won’t_ sing, he said with a smile. _I’ll share the lyrics in the usual way, mind-to-mind, but in this hall, it is well-soundproofed enough you should be able to hear the guitars, drums, and flutes._

_May I proceed?_

The guide president nodded her head.

He passed a thought to his father, Jax, Reik and the others, who had been waiting in the outer hall.

They came in and set-up, the guide members and leaders craning their necks, minds whispering in the cathedral-ceilinged hall.

Michael had no idea how to make a piano from the materials on-world, but he and his Dad had been able to make a pretty solid attempt at a guitar and Michael had tuned it from memory.

His father met him on the podium and handed him the instrument, settling his own on his keeps as Reik finished tightening the bolts on the specially-grown drum set and Jax polished his flute (formerly a piece of pipe). Michael tapped out the first four count, members of the audience jumping at the unexpected echo. Then he started with the G, D, Em7 sequence, and began to sing in his mind:

> _When I was a young boy, my father  
>  _ _Took me into the city to see a marching band  
>  _ _He said, "Son, when you grow up would you be  
>  _ _The savior of the broken, the beaten and the damned?"  
>  _ _He said, "Will you defeat them? Your demons  
>  _ _And all the non-believers, the plans that they have made?_

They had practiced for months on the compound, experimenting with making instruments from the skins and guts of the animals they’d caught for their suppers, Michael spending long hours trying to remember every lyric, every twist of the song he’d heard floating out of Alex Manes’s window, those long, lonely but hopeful nights a decade ago.

> _Because the world will never take my heart_  
>  _Go and try, you'll never break me  
>  _ _We want it all, we wanna play this part  
>  _ _We'll carry on._

They let the last chords echo, floating away to dissipate against the metal walls of the auditorium. Michael kept strumming lightly, even as the other musicians put their instruments down.

The entire room was buzzing, fizzing with it. Michael could catch snatches of the song, _one day, I’ll leave you_ and _Go and try, you'll never break me_ and _I'm unashamed, I'm gonna show my scars_ and _Your weary widow marches_ , flitting and flying through their shared mindspace. He kept strumming long after the song was supposed to be done, each chord bringing another flush of memories across the room.

_Would you like to hear it again?_

_YES._ Came the voices in his mind, nearly unanimous from the crowd of watching faces.

He smiled: _I’m happy to do it, but I have one request._

 _What?_ Snapped the ore processing plant workers’ representative; her mind was freely humming the chorus and Michael saw she was tapping her boot against the floor, perfectly matching his strumming.

 _I ask that you sing along. If you remember the words, or can think of your own, I ask that you sing along_.

And they did.

They played and sang all night long, the guild members stumbling home, drunk on melodies and harmonies, drunk on _music_. 

In the morning, they returned for negotiations, steel in their eyes and a rhythm under their breastbones.

\--

**Distance: 223,461,879,597,225km**

1st day of 10,202,115

In exchange for copies of every song ever recorded and his father's promise to find out how to grow guitars and pianos and flutes and saxophones and violins, the trade guilds agreed to allow Michael and five other pilots to be paired with six pilots from earth, to train them to navigate the wormholes. It was a long assignment, at least 12 cycles, and could be extended for longer if everyone agreed.

Because the humans selected would know none of the interstellar shipping lane rules and regulations, after significant negotiation, the trade guild got a 200,000 heartbeat window cleared a select group of disused wormholes, a little more than an Earth day, so the humans wouldn’t get crushed by intergalactic ore transports or shot at by overzealous guard squadrons for royal pleasure ships.

Michael ensured he got permission to set specifications for the identities of the pilots, as the highest Earth expert on Kalendil.

Six cycles later, Michael said goodbye to his father at the entrance to the space port, the massive shuttles rumbling behind him, trinket settlers shuffling around them, hawking their wares. Michael hugged him tightly, with a strict letter-written plan between them.

 _I got a decade longer with you than I thought I ever would have,_ he said, a smile in his bright eyes, _and I can't wait to hear of your adventures._

 _I'm only a relayed message away_ , Michael had returned, feeling pressure behind his eyes and not bothering to hide it; he knew he was safe to cry with this man. _I want to hear all about you and Mom's chess game_. They'd been playing it for fifteen cycles at this point, neither winning or losing, but both enjoying the game.

 _You know she's going to win_ , his Dad said, chuckling. _And, when you see Alex?_

Michael glanced up, blinking hard. _Invite him to dinner?_

His father grinned: _We've got the air filtration system ready, an entire unit of the compound he can visit and breathe freely. You just need to get him here_.

Michael dug his heel into the dirt. _I don't even know if he'll want_ _to come_.

His father wrapped his arm around his shoulders, hand going carefully to the back of his head as Michael hugged him back. _You're right, there's no guarantees in life. And if he doesn't, for whatever reason, it's his loss. And you'll always have a home here, and in the stars. But if he does? He'll be welcome here. You both will be._

_I know, Dad. I love you._

_Love you too, son._

The flashing lights that signaled oncoming departure began to flash and Michael hiked his duffle over his shoulder.

 _I'll write you when I get to to moon!_ He called out as he waved.

 _You'll have a message from me when you arrive_ , his father said, and with a final wave, turned around, and headed back to his transport.

Michael let himself get consumed with the shuttle intake process, the paperwork and the letters of transit, and connecting with his team -- Jax and four pilots from the different trade guilds, the ones who'd been most excited about the chance to hear music, maybe even learn to sing it.

As they settled back into their seats on the transport ship, Michael thought of the New Mexico blue sky, the powder blue of a prom suit, and the blue vortex.

And in his quietest thoughts, Michael whispered: _See you soon, Alex._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is what the "Welcome to the Black Parade" acoustic cover sounded like to me: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CJvfaU_aY-I


	6. Distance: 223,461,879,597,232km

****August 15, 2018  
** Baikonur Cosmodrome, Kazakhstan  
**

Alex leaned back in his seat, feeling his capsule shake and jerk, hands on his knees, the engines screaming him up into the atmosphere. 

There was nothing for him to do; it was a remote launch, the same flight engineers who'd handled Liz, Rosa, Maria, Charlie, and Kyle earlier in the day were managing his ascent, in concert with his onboard AI. His job was to sit here, look pretty for the live stream, and answer the flight engineers' questions.

Jenna Cameron was his contact at ground control, and something in him settled at her warm voice: "How's it feeling up there, Captain Sanders?"

"Little shakier than last time, much smoother than my 3rd ride."

Given his 3rd ride had resulted in the loss of his right foot after a portion of the hull had cratered inward due to a micrometeoroid and he'd had to seal the hole before applying a tourniquet, _every_ ride thus far had been smoother than that ride.

"Good to hear it, Captain. How's the view?"

Alex looked out the broad high-temperature quartz glass windows; the curve of the earth was just revealing herself, what had felt like a flat, impossible wide plane in the Steppes turning to the same gentle curve he'd loved since the first time he got up here. He could see the beginnings of a storm over by Kyrgyzstan, and the growing sparkle of stars ahead.

"Beautiful as always, control."

"Good to hear it." Cam's voice grew more formal: "T-5 minutes for Phase 2."

"Copy."

Alex braced himself, getting ready for the main rockets to break away and fall back to earth; it was a key moment where control should begin to shift to his AI and it was the one ground control was the most concerned about. 

Alex focused on what he could control: he'd have 11 months in this capsule, about the size of a band van, with radio contact between him and his team but not physical contact from anyone. They would be going 6-7 times faster than any other human spaceflight mission had gone before, thanks to parts grown by Michael's Mom.

Not that anyone but she and Alex and Max and Isobel and the other Kalendilis knew that's who the IQ was. They'd kept it a secret, kept Max and Iz away from the space program to keep them safe, kept every piece of Michael's life buried that they could. It had seemed a deadly necessity, back when he'd first come to the broad green lawns and impossibly cool labs of CalTech, but while the urgency had faded, the habit hadn't. That Michael had wanted to know he was alive, that Michael had gone to all of this effort to contact him, to make sure he was ok, and then to use that thread as the basis for every other piece of information the human species knew about the universe?

Alex didn't know how to love him more than he had when they were 17 and soft in each other's arms, spinning secrets and fantasies in the hallowed space between them. But with every transmission, every bit and piece of the universe Michael tossed down to earth, Alex found his heart trying to find new ways to love him.

Going to space to tell him that seemed the least he could do.

"Anything you'd like to say to the viewers, Captain Sanders?" Came Cam's voice; Alex strongly suspected the PR rep for MarsX had just goosed her.

Alex took a breath, looked into the glassy eye of the onboard camera, and started to speak: "I know this trip isn't without its risks. As my adoptive father Walt would say, spaceflight is a deadly game. Astronauts in the ‘90s returned to earth with 4% of their white blood cells mutated by the unshielded radiation that flowed through them every second they were above the ionosphere." _And they'd been flying with NASA and government-run space agencies, not the Crazy Motherfuckers at MarsX._

"But I also know also know about the Māori. The Rotumans, the Samoans, the Tongans, Niueans, the Marquesans, the Hawaiian Māoli. I think about how many families had watched their explorers sail off on handmade ships, built at first of not much more than logs strapped together with reed-rope. How many of them had watched their lovers die on the rocks, sink in the tidelands, or found the broken remains a season later on a far-off beach? Just think about sitting on a boat made of vine-cord and trees you’d cut down with your own two hands, and aiming at the horizon."

He gave a half-smile: "It took hundreds of years for humans to progress, to advance from moving across streams and rivers to lakes to seas to the great oceans of Earth. It took thousands of years and thousands of deaths to get there."

He took a breath. Alex was going to space to see Michael, but it wasn't just for Michael; just like he knew Michael had connected Earth to Kalendil to make sure he'd survived his father, but he _kept_ _the connection going_ because he could see how it was making things better, giving people a reason to look to the stars and fill their hearts with wonder.

"The thing is, humans are within our first generation of space flight and, compared with sailing, it's profoundly safe, successful, and fast. And if I can be one of those first hundred explorers, the ones who make sure that people keep their eyes on the horizon and fight to get there? If my crew get to be a symbol for people who needed help to get to freedom, to get away from home and to where they needed to be?" He smirked: "I'll take a shaky ride in a tin can any day."

Cam's voice cut in: "Transition about to start; then it's just you and your AI up there, Captain Sanders." 

He could hear a thread of worry in Cam's voice, so he tried to project as much warmth as he could: "Copy, I have the con. See you in an hour for our check-in."

"Copy. You'll be out of the media haze in about 15 minutes and able to connect with your team freely from there. Have a good flight, Captain."

"Thank you, control." Alex smiled at the live stream and flicked it off, letting his face relax.

Alex looked out into space, the blackness inky and the stars hanging. He wished -- he allowed himself to wish -- for a long, quiet moment that he wasn’t in the capsule alone. It wasn’t like when he was a kid, when they’d send up entire crews. This was the most efficient way, and with an AI that knew its business, he'd have all the back-up he needed. But going 11 months without being touched, especially after the last 10 years of camaraderie and friendship and movie nights and late-night bitch sessions in big shared house in LA, he was going to miss hugging his team. He was going to miss waking up to Kyle flopped across his legs after falling asleep during a study session or the smell of Liz's cooking in their downstairs kitchen. He was going to miss stealing Rosa's eyeliner and having to hunt down Charlie to get his comfy pants back. He missed having to argue about who'd fed Shelby last, since she had an incredible willingness to play hungry for each of them until she'd gained 15 pounds in 3 months and they'd had to institute a chore chart. She'd passed of old age a few years back, surrounded by everyone who loved her; Walt had driven to LA when it seemed like she was failing, his warm hand on Alex's shoulder the entire drive to the vet.

He loved his team; he had to. Imagine doing a ballet 100,000 miles apart. Each dancer has different capacities and needs, and they need to trust each other to act independently and in the group’s best interests. And after 4 years of complex relationships in high school, they had all found themselves drawing in tighter and tighter together in college, until they'd all decided over one long camping trip Junior year to find a way to be _the_ team. They could see it coming down the pipe, with Liz’s connections and Alex’s faith, they all had decided it would be _them_ to be the first humans to visit the rings of Saturn and whatever lay beyond that. Their commitment to that shared promise, and the fact they were building on relationships some of them had started as children, had built a kind of trust that the military usually formed in teams through trauma bonding. They had passed every requirement, every funding cut, every challenge, all of it by working _together._

Alex knew, on this trip, he'd have their voices, their teasing and bickering and comforting, at least until they split up at the first wormhole in 11 months.

In the case of a major emergency, they _could_ dock with each other, circular airlocks connecting; each of their ships could physically fit all 6 of them if they absolutely had to, though they'd be breathing each other's air and elbowing each other's kidneys. If they were at rest, they could connect to two ships at a time, forming one, larger station. Alex couldn't wait to see their faces, to hug them again.

But right now, speed was the name of the game. They would have to maintain consistent positive acceleration for five and a half months, then consistent negative acceleration for five and a half months; they wouldn't be standing still until they reached the rings of Saturn and the wormhole where the IQ and his team would be meeting them.

Michael knew the timeline, knew who would be meeting him there.

Every word Alex spoke inside this ship was recorded for posterity, so in the privacy of his own mind, he murmured: _I can't wait to see you, Michael._

\--

****August 15, 2018**  
Distance: 223,461,879,597,178km**

10 minutes later, Kyle pinged Alex's ship: _“_ Alex, how was lift off?”

"Good, I gave a little speech-y thing to inspire the indigenous kids in the space program and remind everyone who the _original_ explorers were; hopefully that'll keep them from asking me for any more PR bites for a few days."

"You know that means they're just going to get lectures from Liz on space science and live art presentations from Rosa, right?"

"Good, I can't think of any better ambassadors for space than the Ortecho sisters."

Kyle's voice was clear; they wouldn't make video calls if they didn't have to, flying as they were 1000 miles apart at the tips of a 6-sided star to maximize the range of their scans for micrometeoroid and other space junk that could ruin their trip. Alex could hear the wry smile in Kyle's voice when he said: "You gonna get some sleep? I can handle your next check-in. I know they had you all over the media circuit today, you must be wiped."

"Yeah, I'm going to conk out. Thanks, man."

"No problem."

A text transmission came across his dash; his AI had caught sight of a message from the IQ, directed down to earth.

. ...- . .-. -.-- --- -. . / -- .- -.- . / .. - / ..- .--. / .. -. - --- / - .... . / .-- .. .-.. -.. / -... .-.. ..- . / -.-- --- -. -.. . .-. / .- .-.. .-. .. --. .... - ..--..

His AI translated, speaking with Kyle's voice -- they'd all lent their voices to each other's AIs:

"Everyone make it up into the wild blue yonder alright?"

It would take a couple of hours for Earth to reply, a major leap forward in communication time since the first transmission Liz and her team had caught at CalTech.

Alex unbuckled himself and bushed back, easing into the zero G and twisting until he was at the back of his cabin. He unpacked his sleep sack, attaching it firmly to the wall. Then he went through his nightly routine, then tucked himself into the sack, pressure straps against his chest to make it feel like the weight of a blanket. As he talked himself to sleep, he went through his daily ritual, thinking of Michael's bright eyes, his warm hands, his powers, his smarts, his kindness. He thought about the ways the IQ had changed, softening and sharpening in different ways throughout the decade of transmissions. Alex thought about the ways _he'd_ changed, the ways he'd hardened himself and the ways he'd discovered new ways to have compassion.

He liked himself a lot more at 28 than he had at 17; he hoped Michael would feel the same. If he didn't, well, Alex had his team.

But he suspected he would.

Alex let himself fall to sleep.

When he awoke, the first thing he saw was Earth's reply to the IQ:

\- .... . -.-- .----. .-. . / --- -. / - .... . .. .-. / .-- .- -.-- .-.-.-

_They're on their way._

\--

 **July 24th, 2018**  
Distance: 223,460,684,292,831km

There was a ship. Cruising out from the C-ring of Saturn, right where Alex and his team had been aiming for 11 long months. Blue and gold, tear-drop shaped and screaming in at 10x Alex’s speed.

Rosa was point person for comms, so she sent the same message she'd been sending for a week: "MarsX flight group incoming; are you the IQ?"

No reply.

It whizzed past them, their first major in-person alien first contact over in seconds.

Liz called out on the shared line: "Looks like it's looping back; accelerating negatively."

Alex breathed a sigh of relief; not a case of mistaken identity then, just a miscommunication as to docking speed.

"How long will it take to get to our velocity?" He asked.

Liz had it right away: "4 hours, 32 minutes."

"Rosa, any idea why it's not responding?"

"No idea, Charlie. Maybe something took out its audio system?"

For four hours, they each did routine maintenance on their capsules and watched as the ship then it looped and whirled and twirled and -- most importantly -- slowed, getting closer and closer to them on each loop.

Alex's stomach was in pleasant knots; but he forced himself to do the same tasks he'd been doing for the past 11 months: checking on his experiments, recording data, transmitting updates back home.

He had a funny thought; he called out to the team: "So, you know how since this all started, everyone's been assuming they're communicating with us via Morse code because they were working over such long distances, or didn't have the same kind of digital encoding, or whatever?"

Maria pinged back: "Yeah, and audio files are so much bigger than something binary-ish like Morse."

Alex nodded, replying: "But what if it's because they _don't use_ audio communication? What if visual communication _is all they've got?_ "

Michael's Mom had been cagey about this, talking about how there was no music back home; and she and Isobel and Max had always comfortably spoken mind-to-mind. But speaking of the home she'd left had caused her such pain, with the added weight of the years in Caulfield, that he had very little sense of what that _meant_ , in _practical_ terms.

"I want to try something. You know those emergency flashers?"

Maria replied, voice confused: "You mean those ones we use when we're docking, to find each other?"

"Yeah," Alex said. "I'm going to try spelling something out in Morse code with them, see if that works."

Kyle's voice was dry when he said: "You know, there's a detailed handbook describing exactly how we're was supposed to engage in first contact --"

Rosa replied: "But Earth is 71 light minutes away, so it's up to us."

Liz's voice was quiet, bolstering: "We reported the contact as soon as we got it; command didn't have any better ideas."

Alex liked to think, in his brighter moments, that this was why he’d been chosen, all those years ago: his willingness to adapt, his will to try new things, to see what stuck.

He asked his AI: "Using International Standard Morse code, flash my emergency flashers to create this message, on a loop, every 10 seconds for the next 15 minutes: "I am from a planet we call Earth; where are you from?"

The lights began to flash: .. / .- -- / ..-. .-. --- -- / .- / .--. .-.. .- -. . - / .-- . / -.-. .- .-.. .-.. / . .- .-. - .... -.-.-. / .-- .... . .-. . / .- .-. . / -.-- --- ..- / ..-. .-. --- -- ..--..

The ship whipped past them; no reply. Nothing the 2nd. The 3rd. The 4th.

On the 5th pass, when the ship was only going about 5x his speed, he thought he saw a flicker -- but it was gone before he could record it.

"Anyone get that?"

"No," 

"Nope,"

"Nada,"

"No dice,"

"That's a negatory."

"I _swear to God, Charlie,_ if you use that StarCraft voice again --"

Kyle's voice was mild when he said: " _Rosa_ , you can bitch Charlie out on a private channel, let's keep this line clear," 

The 15th pass, they were nearly going the same speed, and Alex could make out a distinct flash.

He and the computer translated it together:

.- .-. . / -.-- --- ..- / - .... . / .- .-.. . -..- / --- ..-. / -- .. -.-. .... .- . .-.. ..--..

Charlie's voice was confused: "Guys, this doesn't make sense."

Everyone else was silent, putting it together in their heads.

As it was always going it be, it was Rosa who broke the silence: " _Holy shit,_ Alejandro _. Holy. Fucking. Shit._ I fucking _get it now_. _Holy. Shit._ "

Alex looked down at his screen, at the message the alien ship had relayed:

_“Are you the Alex of Michael?”_

And Alex’s stomach jumped; his fingers tingled and his heart started to race.

“Yes,” he replied back, not thinking, not planning, not looking for help or guidance from his team or his base. Just: “Yes.”

The reply came nearly instantly: - .... . -. / ..-. --- .-.. .-.. --- .-- / -- .

_“Then follow me.”_

Charlie was insistant: "Guys, I'm lost. What is happening?"

Liz was speaking quickly, trying to get everyone on the same page: "I didn't know for sure until now, but it looks like the IQ is someone we went to high school with. Back in Roswell."

Charlie's voice was disbelieving: "You are all so fucking weird."

Alex had wrangled his voice into some semblance of professionalism: "It looks like the ship is leading us to the wormhole. Can we cast aspersions on our hometown _after_ we go where no person has ever gone before? It looks like it will be," and he checked his AI, "At least 3 hours until we get there. More than enough time to rip me a new one for keeping secrets."

There was quiet on the line, then Kyle's voice came through: "The way I see it, whatever is going on between Alex and Michael is the reason we all got to get up here in the first place, so maybe rather than getting on your case, you can tell us what you know, so we'll all on the same page when we get where we're going."

And Alex felt it, relief like a waterfall, pouring down his shoulders and back. There'd been some small, startled, stung and stunted part of him that had been _certain,_ that had been _sure_ his friends would hate him for concealing this, for keeping this secret. For knowing more than they did about something that could be risking their lives.

Maria chimed in: "Yeah, I don't think we need to yell at Alex either. If he didn't tell us, it's because he couldn't. I think we all understand about keeping secrets like that."

There was a bit more quiet on the line, then Charlie nudged her ship's front end, pointing it directly towards the path the alien ship had taken. Everyone else did the same, falling into their regular orbital pattern.

Alex cleared his throat: "I can answer any question anyone here has, but first I wanted to say: I love you all. I'm sorry I couldn't tell you before. You know I hate secrets."

"No shit, Alex," Rosa said, "You couldn't even keep it a secret who put hair-dye in Charlie's shampoo back in grad school --"

Liz cut in -- " _Maybe_ she shouldn't have _beat me_ to applying for that microgravity NSF grant --"

And they were off, rambling and chattering and kvetching as they steered their spaceships into the C-ring of Saturn, cruising above the meteoroid belts, following the taillights of the Kalendili space ship.

_See you soon, Michael._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sources for some of the astronaut details:  
> \- The _Writing Excuses_ podcast had a series of interviews with astronauts and astrophysicists and they have amazing details: https://writingexcuses.com/?s=astronaut  
> \- This is great fun as a way to get to know what space is like: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t6rHHnABoT8  
> \- The thing about astronaut's white blood cells getting messed up is from the Netflix documentary I mentioned earlier, _Alien Worlds_ and their interview with Michael Foale, a British-America astrophysicist and astronaut: https://www.netflix.com/watch/81035057?trackId=200257859. Here's a bit more scientific paper about it: https://www.americaspace.com/2016/02/21/iss-study-aims-for-answers-behind-blood-cell-changes-and-bone-marrow-loss-in-space/
> 
> And some spaceflight details:  
> \- Here's a bit more on spaceship design: https://www.nasa.gov/centers/ames/research/2007/faq-shuttleglass.html. I entirely made-up the idea of launching one-person clusters, but since the only spaceship I've touched is one of the Apollo 11 space capsules at the tourist-trap Meteor Crater Museum in Arizona, and I liked the idea of a cluster of light-weight ships going up, I went with it: https://meteorcrater.com/attraction/apollo-11/  
> \- More info on the Pacific Islander peoples who were the first world travelers and who inspired Alex as an astronaut: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Polynesians#Origins  
> \- And a bit on speed. I'm assuming It's about 6.5 years to Saturn with our current tools: https://www.bbc.com/future/article/20150809-how-fast-could-humans-travel-safely-through-space  
> \- I used this website to check the orbital alignments on August 15, 2018 and it was pretty much a straight shot between Earth and Saturn, if you keep Mars on the left: https://in-the-sky.org/solarsystem.php and https://www.heavens-above.com/planets.aspx


	7. Distance: 223,460,684,292,831km

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're earning our explicit rating in this one! The boys are not subtle, so you'll def know when it's about to start if you'd like to skip.

**15th day of 10,202,130  
Orbiting Kalendil's First Moon**

_God fucking dammit, _Michael yelled, kicking the underside of his ship's console. 10 _years_ of planning this rendezvous and he was being kept from Alex by a _fucking_ air filter.

And, fine, in space, an air filter was the difference between life and death -- and so were the toilets and med kit design and water compressions systems on his ship. The _Shelby_ was about the size of a Walt's double-wide trailer, with the standard square airlocks to hook-up with mining shuttles and carriers. That meant it could _normally_ run on a double filtration system, not the quad systems that larger ships needed. _Everything_ was the difference between life and death, and so _everything was important_.

But he'd wanted to be the one to meet Alex on the rings of Saturn; to bring Alex onto his ship. _He_ wanted to take him through the wormhole, tell him what he'd seen 10 years ago, how Alex's wide eyes had been the last thing he'd seen and the thing he'd thought of every night before falling asleep. Michael wanted to see Alex's eyes get big the first time he saw Kalendil, with her sunside and her everdark and the arc of land where his entire civilization flourished. He'd gotten them two weeks, a protected break before they'd begin their tour of the portion of the wormhole network the trade guilds had negotiated their access to. He wanted to touch him with his own hands.

The problem was, the air filters were designed to work for Kalendilis, not Earth folks, and Michael was on his third filter crapping out after trying to get the oxygen/nitrogen balance _just_ right and also get it to filter _all_ of the carbon and silicon dust out of the air. Michael had no idea how Alex’s lungs would manage with grit he’d learned to put-up with on Kalendil, but he didn’t want his first chance to see Alex in a decade to end with Alex collapsing from rapid-onset hypoxia.

So Jax had gone out to go and get him, bring him back to Michael, give Michael time to get it all ready for him.

Jax thought his worrying was cute; Michael thought Jax should go suck an airlock sphincter.

And, _fine_ , _yes,_ Jax could meet Alex and his team and bring them through the wormhole just as well as Michael could; the old fighter could probably do it better.

_I can't wait to see how Jax and Rosa get along; either it's be like an engine tree on fire or they'll never leave each other's sides again._

His console beeped; an update from Jax, relayed through the probe Michael had set-up on Saturn's C-ring over a decade ago. 

It read: _Got your man; see you in 12 'hours.'_

Michael's team had been practicing using Earth time measurements, though he could not convince them to communicate verbally. The look of utter horror on Jax's face the first time Michael had tried to practice speaking with them with his voice had shut down _that_ approach to cross-cultural diplomacy pretty quickly. No one else on his team had even allowed him to install audio transmitters or receivers on their ships, insisting that if people from Earth had the awful manners to speak with their mouths, then _Michael_ could be the point of contact for them until they learned better.

It was not a cultural barrier he expected to overcome. No matter how popular musical instruments became on the surface, exclusively played in the covered valleys where any sound at all could be heard over the roaring hurricane-force winds, the taboo against vocal speech was as strong as ever; in some places, even stronger, as former elements of the Alighting got it into their pointy little heads to push back against relations with Earth on the grounds that music was not just inconvenient, but _wrong_ in some way. They were not making much headway, given how indoor concerts were becoming more popular than their own reactionary club meetings.

The problems of the Alighting and music and speech could be left for another day, though; Michael had about 86,400 heartbeats to fix his filter and make sure his ship was good enough to welcome Alex.

Something turned over in Michael’s head, brain flipping into high gear. He was going to _fix_ the air in this spaceship, and he was going to do it in time for Alex to see him all nicely pressed and freshly scrubbed, waving out of the window.

Another message came through, this one from the surface: _How's the filter doing?_

It was his Dad; Michael smiled, typing out a quick reply: _Still fried; any suggestions?_

 _Just hard work; I know you'll get there. Your Mom sends her love_.

Michael felt a small smile move across his face and tapped out: _You told her I love her too?_

 _Always do_.

Michael got to work.

\--

**15th day of 10,202,130  
Distance: 2230km**

Michael _finally_ got the air mix right after 10 hours of hard work and no small amount of cussing. He blinked a few times the first time the tests came back correct; then he took a deep breath. It smelled a bit like steak, from the vacuum pulling the rust from some of the older bits of the ship; but more than that, it smelled of _Earth_. It was something he'd forgotten the scent of, the silky, light texture of the air. He opened his mouth, and took an experimental breath, not filtering the air past his lips or teeth. He could feel it too, the smooth way his body took in the air. He'd often wondered what the air was like on their home world, the one they'd evolved on; he suspected the air was a lot more like Earth's.

 _Something to talk with Alex about when he gets here_ , he reminded himself, then looked around his ship: it was very clearly a working space, tools and grease and failed filter attempts scattered everywhere. He shook his head at himself and got to cleaning.

Once everything was tidied up again, he washed himself, shaved, and pulled out his flight suit, anchoring his feet on the grab bars and pulling it on in front of the mirror he usually used so he could see every angle of soldering project at once. He'd let his curls grow a little longer, not as worried about keeping them out of his face now he spent most of his days wearing the blue full body suits that the gritty air on Kalendil required.

But his flight suit was a light blue with something he privately thought of as black racing stripes down the thighs and biceps, a stretchy, insulated material that could withstand the vacuum of space and was comfortable enough to move in. He had his hemet clipped to his utility belt; he wanted to see Alex with his eyes, and Alex to see him.

He got a ping on his dash: _Look toward Exchelon_.

Michael strapped himself into his pilot's seat and blasted his thrusters, swinging his ship around. The wormhole they were using, the same one he'd been using for 10 years to communicate with Earth, was in a geosynchronous orbit, just a few degrees off center of the moon's pole on the Exchelon side. He'd been in orbit around the equator while he did repairs, looping around the moon every 1000 heartbeats, but as he turned, he could see it, over the horizon: six ships, a quarter the size of the _Shelby_. Arrayed out like the points of a star, with Jax's old sturdy ship right at the center.

 _I see you_ , Michael said.

Jax replied: _They're using that Morse Code you told me about. No other form of communication I can tell, but they're all responding well._

Michael typed out a reply: _I'd bet they've been sending you vocal communications for hours, Jax_

Jax pinged back: _is the correct emoticon :P or xP_

Michael grinned: _I think you might mean >:[ or ಠ_ಠ_

_Unclear. Eta, 30 mins._

Michael replied: _Ok, I'll start broadcasting to let them know I'm here_.

Michael cleared his throat and the sound of his own voice in the quiet of his ship startled him a little. He couldn't remember the last time he heard anyone but a baby speaking aloud. He closed his eyes for a moment, remembering Alex's voice: _“No one I’ve ever met is like you. No matter where you come_ from,” and "You _deserve to be kept. By someone who loves you. Forever.”_

Then Michael Guerin flipped on the transmitter and spoke into the microphone he'd constructed himself:

"Hey guys, how's it going?"

There was a long, long moment of silence, when Michael worried perhaps he'd designed the transponder incorrectly or misunderstood the channel they'd be using -- and then he heard not Alex's voice but Rosa Ortecho's:

"Miguel, _what the ever-loving fuck_. I thought you were _fucking_ dead --"

"Mikey, it's so good to hear your voice, I missed you --"

"Michael, it's incredible all you've done for Earth, but also, I'm gonna second Rosa on that --"

"I have no idea who you are but this is entertaining as shit --"

"Michael, my Mom has been saying you've been alive for a decade and she is going to make _so much money_ off those bastards who bet against her in the pool --"

They were all chattered for a minute until -- _there_. Michael heard it. The voice he'd been waiting a decade to hear, clearing his throat.

"Hey Michael," Alex said, and Michael was glad he was in zero G because otherwise he would have collapsed at the sweet sound of his voice, a little deeper, a little firmer with age, but still, impossibly, perfectly his Alex. "I've thought for a long time what I would say to you, if I ever got to hear your voice again."

There was a silence, as 6 spacefarers hung in the darkness, waiting. Michael thought he could hear Alex take a breath, and then he said: "I wanted to say thank you. Thank you, for saving me from my father. Thank you for moving heaven and earth and about 6,000 tons of nuclear ordinance to check on me, to make sure I was alright. Thank you for closing down Caulfield and giving me and Liz and everyone a mission, a goal." Michael could almost hear his throat click as he swallowed. "And thank you for being you. For saving yourself, for not letting my Dad hurt you. It," he took a hard breath, "it would have broken something in me, if he'd hurt you. I can't explain how glad I was you escaped, that you're ok. You are ok, right?"

And Michael found his words: "Yeah, Alex. I'm great. Hearing you, I'm, uh, I'm better than I've been in a long, long time." He worked his jaw. "Look, Jax -- the person who guided you through the wormhole -- they're going to get you into my orbit. Alex, I uh, I was hoping --" and Michael's voice failed. He didn't know if it was the audience or the shocking reality he would get to see Alex in less than an hour, or _what_ , but he lost his words.

Alex stepped in: "Team, how about I dock with Michael, get the rundown on the itinerary for the next two weeks while you all take a lap." He paused. "Michael, could you ask Jax to take my team into orbit around the other moon? At our current speeds, they should be able to get into orbit there in about an hour, and we can join them when it's convenient."

Michael didn't remember Alex being this in-command when they were teenagers, but he was 100% onboard with it.

"Absolutely, join my orbit and we can hook-up -- " 

There was the sound of a snicker and the absolute silence that indicated Alex had cut off his team's microphones.

Michael continued doggedly: "-- can hook-up our life support systems, so we can share one environment. I've retrofitted all of my air filters to produce Earth-standard air, so you'll be safe here."

There was a pleased hum through the comm line and Michael's flight suit was suddenly feeling a little tight. "That was very thoughtful of you, Michael. I'll coordinate with my team if you can communicate with Jax?"

"You got it. And Alex?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you, too. Thank you for a place to stay and a person to come back to and and world to save and a life project to build. Thank you for being the star I aimed for."

Alex's voice was smaller, warmer when he said: "I'll see you in a few minutes, Michael."

As he cut off the line, Michael thought he heard the trailing edge of the wolf whistle; _probably Liz_.

\--

**Distance: .050km**

As Michael watched Alex drift the last few dozens meters to dock their ships, he tried to peer through the window to catch a glimpse of him. But the hard red light of Killion reflected off the edge, turning the cut quartz into rose gold.

Alex had been focused on getting his team on the right track and Michael hadn't wanted to bother him, telling him to open a line when he was ready. As he watched the tail-ends of the MarsX capsules coast towards the smaller moon with Jax as their guide, he heard his comms channel crackle open.

"Hey," Alex said, voice soft. "It's just you and me on this line. Well," he said, a bit of a dry chuckle working its way across the vacuum, and _God,_ Michael wanted to put his hands on Alex's chest, feel that chuckle rumble up towards him. "You, me, and anyone who gets a copy of the blackbox for this ship."

"I can edit out anything you don't want overheard," Michael said, voice low, "I'm a pretty good mechanic."

"Me too," Alex said, and Michael could hear his hands moving over the controls, tapping something out. "You know I'm Alex Sanders now? I went to live with Walt after you left. He taught me to repair cars."

Michael swallowed. "I'd thought your brothers might take you in, or the Ortechos."

"Arturo offered, but I'd gone straight to Walt after what happened, happened. Did you know he knew your Mom?"

" _What?_ "

Another light tapping as Alex's capsule adjusted its angle. "Yeah, from the crash, he was a little kid living on a farm where they hid out. Being able to talk to him about you, Max and Iz being able to talk to him about them -- he also knew Isobel's Mom -- it was a good fit." He heard Alex take a breath. "Walt was exactly the right person for me to do some growing-up with," another soft breath, "and some healing. He's a good man."

"He is," Michael said. "I was sorry to hear Shelby passed. She was a good dog."

"She _was_ a good dog." There was a brief pause. "I see you named your ship after her."

Michael smiled; there was a big portrait of that old mutt on the hull, with her name emblazoned under it. It had been a job and a half describing what a _'dog'_ looked like to the painters guild, but eventually they'd all gotten on the same page.

"I figured if I named it _The Alex_ , that might be too obvious."

"Want to know what I named my ship?"

Michael frowned a little, looking out the window. He couldn't see any name painted on it, no insignia other than the MarsX logo.

Alex seemed to have guessed what he was doing: "It's not written down in any record; it's just what I call her in here," and Michael could hear him tapping his chest. "I named her _Free_. Not 'Freedom' or 'Freebird' or anything more complicated. Just 'Free.' Because that's what you made me, Michael. You got me free."

Michael could hear his voice crackling a little as he said: "I wish I'd been there to see it."

"Me too," Alex replied. "But we're here now." 

There was a slow pause, and then Alex's voice came back, a little hesitant: "Hey, Michael. Any chance I'm on the wrong side of your ship?"

"Huh?" Michael looked up through the window, seeing Alex was on the right side for docking. "No?"

"Any chance there's a different portal I'm supposed to be connecting to?"

Michael was starting to get worried: "No?"

There was a wry chuckle on the other end: "Then, my friend, and I think we have a problem."

"What?"

"Well," Alex said, and Michael could imagine him gesturing. "See, MarsX capsules are built to connect to each other with _round_ connectors, and it looks like your ship, right there --"

 _Fuck._ "I have a square airlock."

"Yep," Alex said, popping the P.

"I'll cut a hole in my ship," Michael said, already unbuckling himself, and looking around for his MIG welder, in case the materials weren't the same and they couldn't rely on a contact weld, "I'll retrofit the shape of the airlock, I'll --"

"Michael," Alex said, voice calm. "How about before you dismember your ship, you tell me if you have a functional spacesuit in your vessel."

"Of course," Michael said, looking down. "I'm wearing it."

"I'd love to see that," Alex said, warmth in his voice, "Our suits are still the bulky kind, you'd never get anything done in here wearing one." He paused, rustling. "I've got a good suit too. How about I anchor my ship to yours, and I'll float across to you."

Michael was already detaching his helmet from his belt: "I'll meet you in the airlock, since you don't know how to work it. You're sure you'll be safe? I don't want you just floating out there alone."

"Yeah," Alex said, and he could hear a grin in his voice. "I'll be good. And I won't be alone."

"Wait," Michael said, as he heard the comm link go quiet. He heard it switch back to life: "When I'm in my suit, you won't be able to hear me. It doesn't have audio comms."

"Alright," Alex said. "I'm curious as to why not, but you can tell me about it later. But that should be fine. I trust you."

"I trust you too," Michael said, breath high in his chest. "I'll see you in the black."

Alex paused for a second, then replied: "I'll see you in the black."

Michael shoved his helmet on his head, securing it and running through his checks. Once he was certain the suit was space-walk safe, he swam through the air to the airlock, slipping inside and attaching himself to his long red tether. Then he vented the air-mix back into the cabin and opened the outer doors.

And he saw Alex, long blue tether floating out behind him as he coasted through the vacuum, black suit reflecting the stars, a big blue bag floating behind him. Michael pushed off to meet him halfway, hands catching and slowing their bodies so when their suits finally touched, it was gentle. Michael hooked his ankle around the back of Alex's leg, anchoring their hips together as Alex slotted his fingers over Michael's ribs before wrapping his arm around his waist. 

Alex moved until their faceplates were nearly touching and then, slow as breathing, gently touched them together.

 _Hey_ , Michael saw him mouth, felt the vibrations of the word moving through the glass of his helmet.

 _Hey_ , Michael replied.

Alex gave him a shy smile, tightening his arm around his waist. _I missed you_.

Michael traced a hand down the side of his helmet, getting no texture from the movement but unable to stop himself. _I missed you too_.

Alex jerked his head towards the airlock of the _Shelby_ and Michael grinned.

He reached behind himself to press the button that would roll-up his tether, but Alex held up a finger.

 _Have you got me?_ he mouthed.

Michael tightened his right leg around Alex's. _I've got you._

Alex nodded slowly: _I trust you._

Then, carefully, he undid the carabiner of his tether, letting it re-spool back into his ship, pressing a button to close the airlock doors after it. Completely untethered from his ship, he never let go of Michael as he reached around and hooked his carabiner to Michael's utility belt.

He gave Michael a brilliant smile and Michael found himself returning it, the show of trust rekindling parts of himself that he'd forgotten he still possessed; parts that wanted softness and trust and the easy smile of a brilliant man in his life.

 _Ready?_ he mouthed, and Alex gave a thumbs up. Michael pressed the button to retract his tether, smoothly pulling them back into his airlock, Alex's arm tight around him, and his leg still cinched tight.

Michael reached the door, shutting the airlock and then beginning the air-release sequence. Alex waited patiently, fingers playing a rhythm along Michael's spine that he could just barely feel through his suit.

Once the chamber was re-pressurized, he undid his helmet, slipping it off and attaching it to his belt before shaking out his curls. 

He heard Alex release the mechanism on her helmet and then, for the first time in a decade and unmediated by transcoders or microphones, he heard Alex Sanders' voice:

"I've never done that before," Alex gasped, grinning as he gently released Michael and started pulling himself out of his bulk suit, revealing a slim black under-suit. "Kyle would kill me for breaking tether protocol; Rosa would say it was 'romantic AF.'"

Michael grinned, catching a hand on Alex's shoulder and sliding it up the man's neck to bury his fingers in his hair as Alex paused, halfway out of his suit. "I think I'm more with Kyle than Rosa on this one, but I did appreciate the gesture."

Alex caught his hand, pressing it to the exposed skin of his neck, frowning a little, preening into it a little: "It wasn't just a gesture. I really do trust you."

"I trust you too, Alex," Michael said. "I -- is this alright?" He asked, flexing his fingers in Alex's hair, desperately hoping it was but prepared to back off.

"More than alright," he said, leaving his suit around his hips. He pulled himself a little closer, fingertips tight on Michael's shoulder as he whispered. "Is it alright if I kiss you?"

"Yeah, God, yes, please," Michael managed before Alex's mouth was on him, insistent and soft and hot, and tasting of nothing so much as home. 

Kiss after kiss and touch after touch, exploring, sliding and digging and caressing and gentling, until Alex's fingers started to scramble, trying to find the closures on Michael's flight suit, trying to get more _skin._

Michael forced himself to pull back from luxuriating in Alex's sweet skin to gasp: "Bedroom. There's a sleep sack --"

Alex's grin was wicked. "I have one of those on my ship too. Never done it before in space, but I've read the literature, and I have _ideas_ ," he looked down, "just let me finish getting undressed."

Michael drifted back a little to give Alex space to work, getting the door to the main room open.

When he turned back to show Alex where the grab bars were, he paused a little, blinking as Alex pulled his right leg out of his suit.

Michael kept his voice even: "That's new," he said and Alex glanced down, smile dimming a little as he looked down at where his leg ended below the knee.

"Yeah," Alex said, setting his jaw. "It happened on my third mission; a micrometeoroid got through the shielding and took my foot out with it." He looked up, and and Michael could see him rebuilding walls. Michael pushed himself back into the room, drifting to where Alex floated, suit in his hands held up protectively. Michael glided right up close to Alex until Alex caught him, holding him close, even as uncomfortable emotions moved across his features.

Michael kept his voice low: "Sorry, I should have been gentler about that. I was just surprised. I'm glad you're ok."

"I'm more than ok," Alex said, stubbornness settling into his eyes, "There's a lot of research into how much better prepared people with disabilities are to train to be astronauts, specifically those with sensory differences or lighter-weight bodies." A little bit of a smile moved across his mouth: "They're thinking about new size requirements, particularly for deep-space adventures like ours; Kyle only just barely made the cut-off. Only time in his life that man has ever been happy to be short."

"That explains the gender composition of your group; if I remember right, when I left Earth, NASA was still a bit of a sausage-fest."

Alex cracked up a little, but Michael could still see a bit of tension in his eyes. He traced a hand from the center of Alex's chest, along the smooth skin of his neck, into his hair. "I _am_ sorry," Michael said. "Down there, on Kalendil, we don't speak out-loud with words. All the communication is psychic, which means we're always conveying our intended emotions." He gave a self-depreciating grin. "It's been a while since I had to tailor my words to my feelings. I didn't meant to make you uncomfortable."

Alex took a long breath and relaxed a little more into his arms. "It's probably good we popped the bubble a little," he said. "As much as I'm still very much intending to join the billion-kilometer high club with you, I figure a meal and a few more minutes to chat would probably be the more mature option."

Michael leaned forward, pressing a kiss to Alex's forehead, lips moving against his skin: "Maturity is for suckers is what I say."

"Hmm," Alex said, pulling himself up to meet Michael's lips, "'sucking' was part of my plans."

Michael hummed in appreciation before pulling back. "But you wanted food?"

"Food and a tour, and if the tour ends in the bedroom, that's perfect."

"Sounds like a plan."

\--

They ate the crumb-less protein bars and fruity smoothies that made-up most space-food, Alex sitting in the lone captain's chair and Michael alternately perched on the chair arm, after about a minute of that, spilled over Alex's lap, where he relied on Alex's arm around his waist to keep him close as Alex allowed himself to be fed a selection of the different bars Michael kept stashed around the cabin. 

The first time Michael used his TK to pull a bar to them, Alex laughed in delight. 

"I'd forgotten how amazing it is when you do that," he said, accepting the blueberry-ish bar. "Isobel and Max never got the knack."

Michael felt something in his chest widen a little. "How -- how are they?"

Alex looked up at him, his thumb soothing along Michael's side in a gesture he let himself arch into. "They're really good. We've kept their identities secret, at their request. But they've been there every step of the way, since the first NASA maps I put up in my bedroom at Walt's."

Michael leaned down, burying his nose in Alex's hair. Somehow, under the sweat and engine and space smells, there was that scent, that absolutely perfect smell of _Alex_.

"What kind of maps?" he asked idly.

"Well," Alex said, walking his fingers up Michael's spine to twine in his hair, sliding his fingertips along Michael's skull in a way that made him want to purr, "The ones we used to figure out this was your home planet, for one."

Michael reared back: "What?" He asked, half-disbelieving.

"So, there was this design Max used to draw, when you all were small, right? Three circles, with some shapes?"

Michael blinked quickly, remembering the red-stained walls of the group home and Max sobbing in a corner. "Yeah; not a great memory though."

"Sorry," Alex said, hands gentle. "Looks like it's my turn to apologize for not stepping lightly on a tender spot."

"It's ok," Michael said, shifting away from the memory and gesturing for Alex to keep going.

"Well, in that first year, when I was living with Walt, when Isobel and Max and I would talk, it got us thinking about 3s."

"Threes?"

"Well, there's 3 of you, 3 circles to that design, 3 shapes in the design, and a 3-sided triangle in the middle. So I started looking through the list of habitable exoplanets and one evening, I started looking for planets with 3 stars." He gestured out the window to where Kalendil was rising over the moon. "On Earth, this is Gliese 667Cc. The name refers to the broader system, the number refers to the star systems -- there's 7 sets of stars systems named Gliese -- then the first letter refers to which star in that particular system, and the second letter refers to the planet orbiting that star, ordered starting at A and moving down the alphabet. So, Gliese 667Cc means there are at least 3 stars in this system, and at least 3 named planets. Then when we got a closer look at them, and tried to guess their shape about when you arrived, it matched that design."

Michael covered his eyes with his hand for a moment. "So, this whole time, you all knew where I was?"

Alex's fingers plucked at his wrist until he lowered it. Alex looked up at him, before raising his wrist to his lips, kissing the thin skin over his pulse point, then to the base of his thumb, then the joint. "We had an educated guess. And, eventually, the IQ confirmed it without me or anyone else having to reveal our sources." He kissed across Michael's palm and Michael hissed in a breath, the sensation so strong he was having trouble keeping still. "And as much as I would have wanted to, even knowing where you were, I couldn't come to you." He kissed up along Michael's index finger, sucking the tip of it into his mouth as Michael's breathing kicked up. Alex released him, murmuring: "To get the resources to get here, that took _you_. That took you and your cleverness," he kissed his middle finger, "your bravery," he kissed his ring fingers.

Michael broke in: "Mr Jones being a dick."

Alex nodded, before kissing the tip of his pinkie finger. "You turning what could have been a catastrophe into a chance to connect our two cultures. You, Michael. My Michael, bringing entire worlds together."

Michael's voice was hoarse when he said: "It was for you. For the greater good, yeah. But it was for you, Alex."

Alex closed his eyes, bringing Michael's hand to his cheek and holding it tight.

"I think you should show me your bedroom."

"Yeah," Michael breathed, and then he pulled himself up, carefully showing Alex the grab-bars as he swung himself down the central corridor and to the bedroom at the back of the ship, near the gentle hum of the engines.

They hovered in the middle of the room, a warm and rising tension around them.

"So," Michael said, "I thought, we could both get in the sleep sack, attach it to the wall, then use our hands? Keep the mess between us, keep the sweat in the bag, wash everything in the morning?"

Alex grinned, pushing off the grab bar and coasting to stop at the sleeping sack. He examined it for a moment before sliding himself inside of it; it was basically a queen-sized sleeping bag attached to the wall, drifting up around Alex's shoulders. 

"Comfy?"

Alex shook his head, making a moue, arms moving under the fabric: "Nope,"

"Oh no," Michael said, reaching out to snag one of the straps of the sack and tug himself closer. "What's wrong?"

Alex gave an exaggerated shrug: "I'm lonely in here."

Michael cracked up, sharing Alex's grin: "Well, I can help with that."

He kicked off his boots, strapping them to the wall, and hoisted himself up and slid himself into the bag, Alex walking his hands up his body to help pull him to his level.

"Ready?" Michael asked, hand hovering over the strap tightening button.

Alex reached out for Michael's other hand, placing it on his bare side. Michael's eyes widened and he realized Alex had somehow managed to get all of his clothes off in the time it had taken for Michael to get with the program. 

"I take that as a yes."

The sack slowly contracted, pressing them against each other and braced against the wall.

"So," Alex said, draping his arms over Michael's shoulders. "How do I get _your_ suit off?"

"Oh," Michael said, stroking his fingers down the tops of his shoulders, "it's specially grown to respond to my DNA." The fabric slipped apart like it had been cut at the seams, pealing into two halves. Michael tugged them loose and bundled them into a tight roll with well-practiced motions, tucking it into the outside zipped compartment of the sleeping sack.

"Now," Michael murmured, body realizing all at once that he had acres of warm, excited Alex in his arms, "let's see about getting you off."

Alex reached between them, clever fingers encircling their cocks. The sudden intimate touch making Michael's toes curl before he spread his legs, letting the gentle pressure of the sleep sack press him closer to Alex until he had his knees braced on either side of his hips. Alex arched against him, the slight sweat of their bodies beading between them, quickly easing the way.

"I can't believe I get to touch you again," Michael said, running his hands over Alex's shoulders, trailing through his hair before dipping down to swipe his thumb across his nipples.

Alex made a small keening sound and Michael grinned in triumph.

"Remembering how you sound is how I got off, so many nights," he confessed in the soft space between them.

Alex nodded, hand tightening a little: "I'd think of your hair, the way you held onto me, how your eyes looked in the moonlight."

They'd found a rhythm, Michael braced tight against him and Alex thrusting short and sharp, the mix of soft slickness and rough movement pulling sounds from Michael he'd had no idea he could make. He managed: "It's a different kind of moonlight here," and he reached up, cradling Alex's face, pressing kisses to his cheekbones until he opened his eyes and Michael could drink him in again. "But you are still the most beautiful person I've ever met."

Alex blinked hard, body stuttering a little, and Michael leaned down to kiss him, feeling his own body catching the same tidal rush as Alex's, careening towards the same waterfall. 

Alex whispered: "I didn't know if I'd ever see you again; I wanted to, so much."

"Me too," Michael said, "me too, I wanted you so much, wanted to see and touch and be touched and to be yours again --"

And Alex reached the edge, the helpless sigh of him yanking Michael over, the scent and heat of him overwhelming every sense Michael had. 

As they both cooled down, Michael summoned a damp cloth and cleaned them both up, kissing the giggle from Alex's mouth at the feel of the cool fabric.

Cloth secured, Michael pressed back against the sleeping sack, getting himself enough room to shift to the side, thigh still crooked over Alex's hips and arm tangled across his chest. Alex tucked himself in a little closer, burying his face in Michael's curls.

"This alright?" Michael asked, and he felt Alex nod. 

"This is the best thing I could think of."

Michael gestured with his fingers, lowering the lights to an easy dim.

"You know," Michael said in the dark. "I used to put myself to bed, thinking about that night in the shed."

Alex let out a long breath: "Me too, though for me, it was most mornings, it's how I got ready for the day."

Michael tucked him a little closer. "We don't have to do that anymore, don't have to hold so tight to that memory."

"Yeah," Alex said, voice sleepy and satisfied. "Now we get to make new memories."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a ton of new science in this one, though I would like to share with delight there is an entire _website_ dedicated to preventing the exact kind of deep space interoperability standards issues that prevent Michael and Alex from smooching earlier in this chapter: https://www.internationaldeepspacestandards.com
> 
> I'd also like to point out that NASA has an entire TV channel, for my fellow space nerds: https://www.nasa.gov/multimedia/nasatv/index.html#public
> 
> As a quick note, the International Space Station usually orbits the earth once every 90 minutes, so Kalendil's moon is pretty big or Michael is going pretty slow: https://www.nasa.gov/missions/highlights/webcasts/shuttle/sts111/iss-qa.html (it's a little of both).
> 
> Also, every article I found about sex is space was boring, heteronormative, and bad. I'm using my best understanding of zero G physics and orbital mechanics and calling it good.


	8. Distance: 0.0001km

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And we're earning our rating *again* here!

**15th day of 10,202,135 | December 1st, 2018**  
Orbiting the 3rd moon of Kepler-163b

Michael crawled into their bedroom on the _Shelby_ , barely keeping his eyes open as he moved from grab-bar to grab-bar. It was always a trip, visiting a moon where the days were 250,000 heartbeats long, about a third again as long as an Earth day. It was a stretch, day after day after day. It was just a little thing, when he first got started, But a month in? He felt like he was aging double time, like his entire body was soaked, falling off the bone. Though that _could_ be because Alex had spent the month with his team, which now included Jax, exploring the Kepler-163 star system. Michael had missed him terribly.

Michael had found himself thinking more than once over that long month that he didn't know how he was going to survive without Alex in his bed each night. His logical brain knew he could, he _had_ , for a long time. But his heart echoed back: it had been a half-life, a dusky survival, unlit by life and color and context. It had been what the pages of a book are before they’re written on. A twilit thing, kept far from the life-giving light of the noon day sun in a bright blue sky.

And now here Alex was, already tucked in tight to their sleeping sack. It was something Michael had never thought he’d have, growing up in the system or learning to thrive on an unremembered planet. Alex, waiting for him.

Alex had promised, _promised_ Michael he’d be there when he got back. And the thing was -- after traveling together for 5 cycles, Michael hadn’t really believed him. He knew how exciting space was, how many variables Alex had to face with his team. He'd resigned himself to sleeping alone, before catching up with Alex's team wherever they were adventuring off to next. Real life happened and people broke a million more promises than they kept.

But not Alex. Not today.

Because there he was, strapped into the sleeping sack, hair soft and floating around him. There was Alex, his face soft with zero G, a little bit of drool floating past. And there was Michael, knowing he was one of the few people who’d ever seen this adult man with his guard down; him and Shelby. It was something more than he could bear, how much he wanted to be in that bed with him.

But he had post-mission checks to do. He dragged himself back to the main room and worked his way through his list, each and every item, just like his Dad had taught him. Then Michael put himself through his paces, did his stretches, set their course for the next wormhole -- but taking the long way ‘round. He and Alex had agreed, no need to be speedy this time, no need for the route to make sense to anyone but them. 

They could just -- hang. Just hang in the deep, still darkness of space.

He was sure that Alex had intended to be awake, had intended to find a way to connect after their separate journeys, probably had a whole plan. But the grace of it was, Alex choosing to let himself relax enough to sleep through Michael coming into the room? God. That -- that was something Michael thought he'd never get to see. To earn that softness, that _trust._

So when all his lists were completed, Michael found he could not bear to disturb Alex's sleep. He just -- he wanted their first touch in an Earth month to be conscious, intentional. So, he strapped himself not into the same straps as held Alex into his sleeping bunk, but the spare bunk, the one with just the straps and no sack, the one for refugees and ambassadors, for spies and spare bags. He set the course to their next destination and took himself down to sleep. He fell asleep matching his breaths to Alex’s from across the room. 

\--

**Distance: 0.0km**

Michael awoke to Alex's lips on his.

Michael grinned against his mouth, whispering: “I didn't want to wake you,”

“I shared no such qualms,” Alex said, licking across his lips until Michael opened for him.

“I’m,” Michael muffled, “I’m fucking glad, ‘Lex. I fucking _missed_ you.”

“Me too, Michael,” Alex said, hands working around his straps, pulling them loose enough he could unfold the front of Michael’s blue flight-suit, newly recoded to respond to _both_ their DNA. Then Alex tucked his limb around the leg straps, slipping through the air. “Me fucking too.”

His body bumped into Michael’s as Michael used his TK to wrap one of his straps around the back of Alex’s knees. “I’ve got you,”

“You absolutely do,” Alex said, shoving his hands inside of Michael’s flight-suit, making space for himself, making the shape of his hands tent the flexible cobalt fabric. Michael eased it down as Alex slid it cloth over his shoulders, the slow dance of sex in space coming as naturally to their bodies as singing.

“What’re you thinking here, love?” Michael said, voice soft beneath the shape of the engine's rumble. “How do you want me?”

Something flared in Alex’s eyes, something hot and feral and true. “Every possible way I can have you,” he said, and then reeled it back in. “How was your trip? How was --”

And Michael pressed his mouth on Alex's shoulder, licking through the cloth, trying to get a taste of him however he could. 

“We’ve got 16 Earth days in this tin can for niceties. If you want me first, you’ve got me,” he said, and Alex made a noise -- not immediately recognizable as lust, but like the sound someone’s body makes when they first get connected to a blood supply after nearly bleeding out; like the first gasp of air after too long in a dioxide-rich tank. 

Michael knew how he felt. His skin was burning for touch. The people on Kepler-163b hadn’t been into physical contact. It was something between children and parents, something between lovers; nearly as restrictive as speech taboos back home. Strangers were entirely untouchable. They designed their cities, their walkways, their corridors to allow people to stay as far from each other as they could, so not so much as the breath of a stranger could touch another stranger’s lips without their consent.

So, in this moment, in this second, what Michael wanted, what he _needed_ was to be full, to be precious, to be _touched._ And being touched by _Alex --_ each touch was pouring some kind of vital lifeblood into him, into his skin, his bones, his knuckles and breaths. 

When Michael kissed Alex, bracing against the wall with the man's weight held tight to his chest, he gave himself to it, to the shape of it, the commitment, the absolute reality that Alex was _his,_ and he that was _Alex’s_.

Across time and space and distance, they had found their way back to each other again.

“Come here,” Michael said, pushing against his sleeping straps, pressing his shoulder tight to the bulkhead. Because, as they'd discovered together, the thing about sex in space is it required _leverage_. It required the ability to push back and thrust, it required the ability to hold tight and _squeeze_ and writhe and _hold_. And the thing was -- though they’d done this before a dozen times -- it was never the same. It never took the same amount of time, it never took the same style and shape, it never had the same twists and turns.

“You’ve got it,” Alex said, pulling himself in, slipping his stump through the side strap and his foot through the foot anchor. Thus secured, he slid his body against Michael’s -- not all at once, but in a smooth roll that made Michael almost swallow his tongue. It wasn’t what it was practiced, because he knew it wasn’t. It was seeing _Alex_ move, it was seeing him making himself move.

Michael wrapped his hands around his back, sliding up against rib after rib: “I’m here,” he whispered as Alex began to work his way across Michael’s neck, along the long line of stubble to where the skin was smooth and clean.

Michael knew he could ask for something, he could nudge for a particular kind of touch, but it was something else, something else entirely, to _be_ here. To be lax in Alex’s arms, actively participating but just enjoying being enjoyed, just liking what he had, just taking what he was.

"I want to taste you," Alex muttered into his mouth, fingers skittering over his skin, "I want to taste nothing but you."

"Earth rations that bad, huh? Sounds like we should head to my Dad's for a home-cooked meal," Michael teased, laughingly wincing away from Alex's pinch to his hip.

"Don't tease, you know I love the cooking on your compound," Alex said as he began to work his way down, one hand on Michael's ribs to steady himself as he pressed his face to his hip, breathing in his smells.

"They _were_ pretty bad," he murmured into the soft skin before licking a strip across Michael's hipbone. Michael made a small sound and even in the dim light of the bedroom, Michael knew Alex was grinning.

"The food on the moon was nothing to cheer for either; though it could have been Arturo's enchiladas and I still would have hated it." Michael shook his head, bracing his curls against the bulkhead. "The people I met were too cold, too distant. I've got a better map of their use of the wormholes, but not much else of value."

Alex was busy kissing a line under Michael's belly button, but Michael could hear him when he murmured: "Cross Keplar-163b off our list of future vacation home sites."

Michael huffed a laugh, the sound turning into a gasp as Alex swallowed him down whole. 

" _Fuck_ , Alex," he ground out, " _Fuck_ I missed you."

He felt Alex hum, tapping out: -- . - --- --- on the thin skin of his inner wrist.

"Em ee," Michael tried; then Alex swirled his tongue under his head and Michael lost the thread.

After a moment, Alex pulled up.

"Em, then ee," Alex said, lips barely touching Michael's foreskin, tapping it out again.

"Em ee, tee, oh, oh --" and Alex swallowed him down again, tongue pressing along the underside of his cock. Michael managed: "Me too. Glad to hear you missed me too, beautiful."

Alex wrapped a hand around the base of Michael's cock, setting a slick rhythm. Michael reach up above himself, gripping the grab bars, not so much for leverage as to have something to hold onto. When Alex glanced up at him, Michael got the see the heat pool in his dark eyes at the picture he was making of himself, all stretched out and ready for Alex's pleasure.

Alex released him and Michael gasped at the sudden sensation of cool air wrapping around his cock. Alex whispered, voice fucked-out and still full to boiling with heat and love: "Stay like that, just for me, ok love? Hold on tight while I take care of you."

Michael made a needy sound, something between, _"Alex"_ and _"yes"_ and _"please"_ and Alex slid his lips down again, making contact with the top if his fist before pulling back with a slick sound. And then it was all rhythm, Alex's fist and mouth working, the sounds and smells, and touches of it overwhelming Michael until his hands were cramping on the metal bars. He was caught in that impossible tension between what his body _needed_ and what he wanted: to keep Alex touching him, holding onto him, keeping him close. Then he felt Alex's other hand, drifting up his thigh, sliding up his hip to settle in the grooves of his ribs. And the feeling that so familiar, so comfortable, that it unhitched him, left him untethered, coming and held impossibly close by Alex's arms.

As he was still breathing down from it, Michael opened bleary eyes to find Alex's face, his hands above their heads, gently uncurling Michael's fingers from the grab bars. "You can let go," Alex murmured, pressing a kiss to each of Michael's knuckles as he flexed his fingers before letting them loose again, "I'll hold onto you, you can let go. I've got you."

Michael nodded, gathering Alex closer to him as the man went, letting his body be soft and easy in his arms.

"Love you from Kalendil to Earth and back," Michael said, not for the first time and never for the last.

"I love every part of you, everything you were and are and will be. I love you." Alex replied, pressing a soft, sweet kiss to the underside of his jaw. He tugged a little at the strap around Michael's shoulder and Michael used his TK to unwind it until it coiled around them both, pulling the sleeping sack up from across the room around them and holding them tight, close together as they both fell back down into deep quiet of sleep.

\--

In the vacuum of space, two things in contact with each other that they are made from the same star stuff will weld together instantly. The atoms cannot tell each other apart. Two ships, when touching, will become a single ship. Two hearts, one.

It's called contact welding. It applies to all stellar-light based life.

\--

It’s not a memory if it’s something you see every day. 

It’s a trigger and it's one both Alex and Michael have learned to let go of, to build new memories around.

When he was 17, Michael saved Alex Manes from being choked to death by his bigot father, ripping a portal back to his homeworld in the process. Alex saw Michael disappear into a blinding blue light, soft 17-year-old body pulled back into some kind of impossible vortex -- one hand, outstretched.

They found each other again.

BACK UP.

"I didn't know if I'd ever see you again; I wanted to, so much."

BACK UP.

"You can let go,"

BACK UP.

 _I've got you._ _I trust you._

BACK UP.

"Love you from Kalendil to Earth and back,"

"I love every part of you, everything you were and are and will be. I love you."

GO FORWARD.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone for reading this! I'm really glad the early readers have enjoyed all of the science I included. Another huge thanks to the lovely cover artists, who deserves many, many comments for her lovely cover: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28109691
> 
> Comments make my day! And come hang-out with me on tumblr: https://jocarthage.tumblr.com/

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Stellar-Light Based Life [artwork]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28109691) by [EmmaArthur (EchoBleu)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EchoBleu/pseuds/EmmaArthur)




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